from where he’s standing at the side—conveniently shielded in the shadows and topless with a fresh shirt slung over his shoulder—bakugou watches you carefully, features riddled with skepticism you refuse to acknowledge as you tinker with the tripod, trying to set the legs at the perfect height.
“there,” you finally announce, satisfied, leaning back so you can admire the contraption in front of you, perched at the top of which is your camera.
“are you sure this is gonna work?” bakugou asks beside you, eyeing you as you pull out your phone to check your hair through your reflection.
at that, you don’t say anything for a beat, focus solely trained on patting down the stray strands, before deciding that this is as good as it’s gonna get and pocketing the device. you then turn to and reach for bakugou, who only lets you fix his hair in anticipatory silence, gaze never leaving your face as you tousle his notoriously unruly locks into place.
“it will,” you reassure him with a smile after a minute, pulling away with a nod that is more for yourself than him. “the sun’s bright enough.”
“whatever you say,” bakugou replies coolly, before tossing the shirt messily to the side. and when you only shoot him a deadpan look: “i’m gonna wear it afterwards, anyway.”
you frown. “you’re not gonna wear it for the photo?”
bakugou pauses for a moment. “nah.”
“…you do know we’re keeping this pg, right?” you chuckle, which makes him flame almost instantaneously.
“of course, dumbass,” he spews, masking his embarrassment with anger the way he always does when you tease him. “it’s just hot, is all.”
“sure,” you quip, and you have to fight to bite back a laugh at the way he sputters in response.
“i was thinking—” you cut him off before he can say anything more, biting your lip to suppress your grin, “we stand at this spot,” you say, pointing to the sunlit space a few feet away from both of you, “and we can, i don’t know, kiss or something.”
“kiss?” he chokes—so blatantly surprised—you’d think the man has never touched your lips, let alone shoved his tongue in your mouth a million times before.
“unless you have a better pose in mind?” you retort defensively, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “and be quick about it,” you say—almost snap, “the sun’s almost setting.”
“okay, okay,” he relents promptly, stepping towards the small, sundrenched area, tugging you along with him by your wrist until you’re standing face-to-face and smack dab behind the camera, at which he glances. “is it on already?”
“yeah. wait, i’ll just set the timer—”
you quickly approach the tripod and crouch down to peer at the screen, making a few clicks before you finally tap the capture button, and the telltale sound of the timer counting down immediately resounds throughout the airbnb, breaking the suspenseful silence.
you instantly straighten up just as bakugou beckons you towards him, and you waste no time in running towards the pro-hero until you’re standing right in front of him, both of you bathed in the honeyed yellow of the sunlight piercing through the beach-facing windows of your room.
and for a brief moment, you freeze. you’ve always known bakugou was beautiful—it was one of the many things that first drew you towards him, after all—that is, before you eventually found out about the even more beautiful things inside of him that made you fall in love with him even more.
but now, as he stands still in front of you, pale skin and ash-blonde hair and bright, crimson eyes all reflecting the sunset bursting through the screens of your window, you can’t help but stare.
because how did you get so lucky?
“hey.”
at the sound of bakugou’s familiar, gruff voice, you startle, and only then do you remember that you still have a picture to pose for.
bakugou doesn’t wait for you to gather your bearings, taking it upon himself to grab your arms and loop them around his neck, before placing his firm hands on your hips. then, he smirks, an all-too-familiar expression that almost always means ‘kiss me’, and so you do.
kiss him.
lifting yourself on your tippy toes, you crane your neck to meet him, closing your eyes just as you press your lips onto his, the camera shutter going off the moment you do as if on cue.
you let your mouths linger against each other for another beat before you finally make the move to pull away, smiling brightly. bakugou smiles back at you, a shy one he reserves for you and moments like these— a smile that stays on as you step back and detach the camera from the tripod, swiftly clicking on the gallery button.
and you all but gasp when you’re greeted with the artful image of your intertwined silhouettes surrounded by sunlight, just as bakugou barks out a delighted laugh.
you turn to regard bakugou with a look that says, ‘are you seeing this?!’, to which the pro-hero only nods, chuckling. you grin, turning back to study the picture, although bakugou doesn’t follow suit.
instead, he only lets his gaze stay trained on your face, a proud look on his face.
because while you were wondering how you got so lucky, he was already busy being the lucky one.
a/n. inspired by my love for the sun, which is a central motif behind my url and blog theme. particularly, this scene revolves around the left image in my current pinned post, which is such a stunning photo. i hope you enjoyed this! (0.9k)
˗ˏˋ while likes are appreciated, they don’t do much on tumblr! if you want to support me and writers in general, reblogs, replies, and tags are the way to go. feel free to drop an ask, too—i’d love to chat. have a nice day! ´ˎ˗
you blink—dumbly—your gaze that you didn't even notice had gone unfocused a second ago readjusting to the sight right in front of you, currently standing one foot away.
one foot away.
kirishima.
kirishima is one foot away.
in front of you.
you swallow the nonexistent spit residing in your throat.
shit.
what did he say again?
"sorry—" you stammer, half-wishing the ten layers of foundation the makeup artist plastered on your face earlier this morning were enough to hide the evident fact that you're currently flaming. "what did you say?"
in front of you—one foot away (jesus)—kirishima chuckles almost a little bit too sheepishly, as if he's the one currently making a fool of himself between the two of you.
(bless his kind soul.)
"i was just asking," kirishima starts, rubbing the back of his neck timidly, "if i may put my hand on your hip? since we're slow dancing and all—"
at that, you whip your head to look at the space around you, and sure (unfortunately) enough, every couple on the dance floor is now standing significantly closer to each other, swaying slowly to some ballad you're too far gone to identify at the moment.
when the hell did the party bops morph into some sickening crooning?
you turn back towards an apologetic kirishima, trying your best to school your features from a wince into a neutral expression.
although you might be doing a worse job than you initially thought, because almost instantly, you see the sorriness disappear and recognition flash across the redhead's face, his mouth already opening to say something before you can beat him to it.
"only if you're comfortable, though. shoot, i should've asked you if you were okay with this before i invited you to—"
"no, it's okay," you somehow manage to say on time, effectively interjecting the man. now it's kirishima's turn to blink at you, and you take his stunned silence as an opportunity to continue.
"i'm okay with slow dancing," you finally manage to declare, acutely aware that you're probably—absolutely—the only pair that isn't dancing by now, the growing anxiety about having your feelings being put on display for everyone to see because of this…less than ideal situation only expanding by the minute.
whose idea was it to partner you with fucking kirishima eijirou anyway?
(it was the bride's. you're a bridesmaid. he just also happens to be a groomsman.)
(the world has it out for you.)
(scratch that. ochaco and izuku have it out for you.)
"that's—uh—great," kirishima half-says, half-chuckles, shifting his weight on his other, fancy shoe-clad foot.
god. you're definitely weirding him out.
the pro-hero (uncomfortably, you think) clears his throat. "i'll go ahead, then—"
you gulp. "sure—"
you can only watch as kirishima hesitantly reaches out for both your hip and hand, eyes admittedly too focused on his timid approach to notice practically anything else.
(like the way he must be cringing in disgust.)
(okay. maybe you're being too harsh on yourself.)
it takes everything in you not to shiver when his delicate hold eventually lands on your clothed skin a moment later, nor when he gently clasps his right hand with yours.
"this okay?" kirishima asks quietly after a beat, peering at you almost—shyly?
(he's a gentleman. that's why. it's got nothing to do with how you're currently less than a foot away from each other.)
"yup," you retort lamely, looking at the ceiling, the floor, your assigned table, everyone around you—anything but him—as you both move minutely to the rhythm.
"do i look that bad?" kirishima jokingly asks after an awkward lull, catching you entirely off guard. your eyes snap to meet his as if on cue, your features contorted in palpable confusion, because why would he even think that?
what you end up saying, though, is something way milder.
and less incriminating: "huh?"
"i'm just kidding," kirishima chuckles—that darned boyish laugh of his—your eyes snagging on the way the sides of his eyes crinkle with the motion. "you seem to be refusing to look at me, is all."
no shit, you want to quip—not that you're capable of being playful—not now, of all times.
especially not when his hand is currently settled heavily on your waist.
"it's just—this wedding is really nice," you somehow manage to say after a second, forcing a smile on your face that you hope is friendly-and-not-at-all-nervous-passing. "ochaco and izuku really outdid themselves with the planning."
"right? and they barely took leaves from patrol," kirishima huffs, shaking his head—disbelief laced in his usually good-natured tone, "those two are beasts—i don't know how they did it."
"they probably had help," you reply honestly, glancing to where the newlywedded couple is currently finishing their slice of cake up front. you turn your attention back to kirishima, smiling, "i heard bakugou really pulled through in making up for izuku's indecisiveness."
kirishima laughs at that, much to your (embarrassing) delight. "that you heard right. he did so well, i'm actually really sure now about making him my best man."
as if on cue, you trip on your heel—essentially losing your balance—and you would've hit the marbled floor if it weren't for kirishima grabbing you by the waist with his pro-hero reflexes, pulling you close to him—
now, even a little less than a foot away.
"are you okay?" kirishima all but rasps, an almost homogenous mixture of surprise, alarm, and worry etched all over his features.
his hands are still wrapped around your middle.
"i'm fine," you croak, straightening up and taking a step back to put more distance between you and the redhead. his arms fall to his sides. "sorry 'bout that."
"it's okay. it was my fault, i think."
you snort. "it definitely wasn't, but thanks, anyway."
kirishima shakes his head. "i'm not exactly what you call a dancer, you see."
"really, you're good. i'm just clumsy."
"was it something i said?" kirishima chuckles again, although it's not exactly riddled with mirth this time. "because i'm not actually planning planning my wedding—it was just a thought—"
"no, really, it's nothi—"
"i actually don't even have a fiancée yet, let alone a girlfriend—"
"you don't have to explain yourself, kirishima-san."
"well, i want to," kirishima suddenly blurts out, leaving you both bug-eyed and staring at each other, at least until he looks away, suddenly seeming uncharacteristically unsure of himself.
he sighs, his gaze still averted. "i guess i just don't want you to misunderstand."
shit.
"i-i'm not misunderstanding anything," you squawk after a beat, head spinning in i-don't-know-what-the-fuck-is-happening.
(maybe he's just the type to want to get his point 100% across. right.)
whatever kirishima wanted you to say, however, it apparently wasn't that, because his boy-next-door countenance is now out of the proverbial window, replaced by an unusual—conflicted, even—frown.
"but you're still not getting it, though," he mutters more to himself than you.
"g-getting what?"
at that, he finally meets your eyes.
and for the second time tonight, you find yourself almost floored, only this time by the sheer determination reflected in his irises.
but not as much as by what he says next.
"that i like you, y/n."
a/n. i tried to challenge myself to write someone else aside from bakugou, and this was the result. please be kind lmfao. (1.2k)
˗ˏˋ while likes are appreciated, they don’t do much on tumblr! if you want to support me and writers in general, reblogs, replies, and tags are the way to go. feel free to drop an ask, too—i’d love to chat. have a nice day! ´ˎ˗
Author's Note: This chapter is. A little different. You’ll see. Enjoy!
Chapter Title from Bells in Santa Fe by Halsey
Word Count: 18.9k
Chapter Summary/Warnings: You survive. Usual Warnings.
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action
Chapter 27 - Chapter 29
Read on A03!
The muffins are taunting you.
Raspberry and blueberry and lemon poppy seed, all of them looking amazing, and none of them good enough for your beautiful, stupid boyfriend.
“Just don’t get him a muffin,” Jo says over your shoulder, and you lean back to give her a small frown. “You ain’t even gonna see him until tonight, it’ll crumble in your bag.”
“I’ll be careful.” You mutter, looking back to the display, and Jo scoffs.
“I dunno know how he even deserves a muffin-“
“He made me breakfast this morning.” You keep looking back to the nutty and sugary muffin, but you might just want it yourself. “Then ate me out. And-“
“You love him.” Jo finishes your sentence with a groan, you grin and the nutty and sugary muffin—it’ll do—and flip her off behind your back.
“Sorry I have a perfect life.” You hum, drawing back up and grabbing out your wallet. “And great tits and a hot boyfriend.”
Jo snorts, stopping at your side when you reach the counter. “I’ve seen your hot boyfriend try’n see how many Q-Tips he could fit up his nose.”
You smile at the air, a little like an idiot, but it’s not worth fighting. He’d spent the entire rest of the night groaning about how he could still feel them in his brain, but grinned at you when you sat on the kitchen counter and carefully triple checked that he hadn’t somehow done permanent damage.
It wasn’t the first time you’d done something like that, though. He liked to do stupid things, such as try and race the dog, then lose because he got too excited and tripped. He’s been trying to renovate the house all by himself, and he’s done a better job you’d thought he would—of course he did, the butthead is good at everything—but he also knocked his head against the ceiling fan and almost got a concussion. Once you caught him setting off fireworks in the backyard, and he’d pouted and trailed around after you like a wounded animal when you told him you lived in Chicago, and that was illegal.
“Things are only illegal if you get caught, baby.” He’d muttered, kissing along your neck in the kitchen, and you’d given in too easy.
But he’d looked so pretty, when you’d driven out to your dad’s for the weekend, and set off the rest of the fireworks. He and his brother had almost lit the forest on fire, but Dad had kept a fire extinguisher on hand, and they’d both looked so happy.
Sam had thanked you, after. Given you a tight hug and mumbled that he hadn’t seen his brother happier than when he was with you. And you’d beamed at him, because you didn’t think you could be happier than when you were with him. For every bruise and cut you had to patch up and kiss better, he held you through panic attacks and stayed at your side through swings of depression.
He is perfect. And stupid hot. So you’re going to get him a fucking muffin.
“I don’t care how many Q-Tips he puts up his nose,” you mumble. “I love him.”
Jo sighs, but there’s a tiny smile on her face. “I know ya do. You gotta stop bein’ all dramatic ‘bout it, though. We’re gonna be late.“
“Let the children govern themselves, Joanna-“
“Those kids ain’t able to govern themselves,” Jo scoffs, climbing into your Firebird and tipping her head back with a groan of your name. “I’m gonna have to clean up so much fuckin’ paint off the walls if I’m two minutes late-“
“I’m sorry your kids are heathens.” You drawl, turning on the engine. “All mine are angels and geniuses, sent right from the lord-“
“Shut up,” Jo whacks your arm, and you laugh. “I know you have that kid who snuck a hamster into your classroom and you didn’t even fuckin’ notice-“
“That’s what you think. I just wanted a hamster- Jo-“ You squeak as she hits you again, the car swerving slightly. “You’re gonna make me crash Dean Jr.-“
“He’d live.”
“I’d cry-“
“You cry ‘bout everything. Pretty sure you almost cried ‘bout the tree we drove past this mornin’.”
You frown out the window. “It didn’t have any branches.”
“See! You’re gonna cry now-“
“It probably missed them, Jo-“
“Tree ain’t gonna miss their branches, dumbass-“
“I’m gonna throw you out of the car-“
“Nah, you won’t, you’d miss me too much.”
You roll your eyes, but she right. Jo gets to make fun of you all she wants, she knows you too well. She’s not getting thrown out of the car. The worst she’s getting is a silent treatment for five minutes when you turn up the radio, before she’s goading you into singing along and you’ve forgotten that you were even pretending to be mad at her.
“You wanna go out for drinks tonight?” She asks as you walk through the school doors, the hallways dead empty because—despite Jo’s whining—you were perfectly on time. “I wanna see if I can beat ya at pool again-“
“You always beat me at pool.” You wave her off with a shake of your head. “And I can’t, it’s a long weekend. We’re driving out to see my dad.”
“Oh, can I pet sit-“
“Nope. Too slow.”
Jo’s eyes narrow, and she glares over her shoulder. “Novak. You asked him over me-“
“I didn’t.” You shrug, glancing at the old wall clock, that’s chronically five minutes behind, but still dangerously close to 7:30. “See you at lunch.”
“No.”
You give her a flat look. “Jo-“
“Sorry I love your fuckin’ cat and think I should get to hang out with her instead of Cas-“
“Shut up.” You grin at her as she sticks out her tongue, and walk away to find your own room.
The day will move past quickly. It always does, when there are things to do. The first classes blaze by in a whirlwind of papers and kids spitting at each other and questions about everything under the sun that you answer with bored, practiced ease.
“Ms. Singer?” William—a boy that looks a lot like Sam, with the floppy hair and big, shockingly innocent eyes—raise his hand, and you nod to him in a silent cue to continue. “Do we have homework due tonight?”
All the kids groan, and a few of them throw papers at poor, nervous looking William, and you sigh.
“No, you don’t. But,” you glare around the room, and it falls silent in half a second. “The next person to throw something has to write a five-page paper about Slaughterhouse Five.”
“Sorry,” William mumbles, looking around at his classmates glares, then back to you. “I just- I thought we had an essay, and I didn’t wanna be late-“
“It’s fine,” the clock seems like it might be moving slower than normal. “Everyone can finish it over the weekend, it’ll be due when we get back.”
You just don’t want to grade over the long weekend, but they don’t have to know that. And there are only four more hours until you can go home, give your boyfriend his muffin, and get on the road. It’ll be a slow, lazy weekend, and you can watch TV and eat junk food and watch dad kick everyone’s ass in poker again. You can talk to Sam about his plans for the summer, and if they want to come out and visit you in Chicago, because you know the anniversary of their father’s death is coming up, and it’s better to have the support-
Pain strikes you, out of nowhere. One second you’re walking through the hallway, headed for the teacher’s lounge, then it feels like you’re being fucking shredded alive. White-hot and furious and embedded into your very blood, roaring and banging around and trying to raze you from within, making your vision go black and the world fucking spin-
You’re in a boiler room, and two men stand across from you. One has gleaming, yellow eyes and looks like he’d made of clogged, sneering ash. The other is just a man—John, that might be John—but he’s angry. And he’s looking at you like he hates you, his hands in fists as you wrap your arms around your stomach and your throat, and you’re going to have to run but you can’t leave-
The image vanishes, but the world doesn’t go right back into focus. For a split second, something is wrong. You can’t place what—all the walls angled wrong, the tile floor somehow creaking under your feet, all the light flaring and sharper than it should be, the colors too dull, with not nearly enough of them present—but it’s wrong. You know something’s wrong, and the pain starts to boil and twist with something bright in your body, then-
You’re in the teacher’s lounge.
You didn’t walk there, or at least you don’t remember it.
Maybe you need to go back the psychiatrist.
“Are you feeling okay?” Cas is frowning at you across the table, and he doesn’t say it like a question, but he never says things like a question. “You look sick.”
Nick—fucking asshole, no wonder his legal name is Lucifer—scoffs, dropping next to you as if you don’t daydream about drop kicking him. “Don’t tell a lady she looks sick, Novak, that’s rude-“
“I am worried about her.” Cas snaps, his eyes not leaving your face. “Your coloring is off, and you haven’t touched your lunch-“
“I- I’m just not hungry.” You push it away, your nose wrinkling slightly. The thought of food is making your stomach twist. “What are you doing for the long weekend, Cas?”
He frowns at you. “Pet sitting. For you.”
“Right.” Fuck, your head hurts. “Sorry, I think I’m just tired-“
“Try sleeping more.” Nick drawls, kicking his feet up on the table, and you’re going to punch the food out of his stupid mouth. “You know, I hear that’ll help you being tired-“
Cas says your name carefully, still ignoring Nick. “If you need to go home, we can call a substitute. I will drive you-“
“I’m fine, Cas. Promise.” You glance around the teacher’s lounge, and it’s mostly empty. Jo had to stay in her room because some students wanted to eat with her—and she always bitches about that, but you know she loves it—and you and Cas are taking a late lunch. Which means it’s you two, Nick, and Michael.
Michael’s watching you, in the corner. He watches you a lot. Not enough to be a report with the school district, but enough to make you glad you never really cross his path otherwise.
He and Nick both watch you a lot.
And there’s another stab of pain through your skull, a high, slight screech leaving your lips, and-
The Sky is shining above you. Furious. It gave you a chance to escape this, but you don’t want it. This is being salvation. This is using all your sickness to clean the world of yourself, and you wish Sam didn’t have to go with you, but there’s no other way.
Dean will be safe. He’s Golden across the field and roaring your name, and you love him. He won’t forgive you. But he has to be safe.
The Sky flares, and the Yellow in your hand makes a horrible sound as you close your eyes, and fall-
A sharp gasp leaves your throat, and you’re not in the teacher’s lounge anymore. You’re not even in your classroom, or getting coffee with Jo, just like you do every day after school. You’re parked outside your apartment, the sun hanging low in the sky and the radio in the middle of a song. There are keys missing from your ring, which means you gave them to Cas for the pet sitting. The muffin is perfectly intact in one of the cupholders, which means you went back to your classroom to get it.
But you don’t remember doing any of that. Or driving home. And your head still hurts, and everything—once again—looks wrong.
It goes back into focus, the moment you notice.
Maybe Nick was right.
Maybe you just need sleep.
You turn off the car, the world still feeling a little far away, fumble with the keys as you walk up the steps. His car is in the drive, which means he beat you home, but you need to hurry if you want to get on the road before the sun sets-
The door swings open before you can even touch it, and you’re being tugged forwards and hauled into strong arms.
“Dean-“ You squeak, trying to whack his chest, but he just laughs and spins you around, capturing your mouth in a sloppy, deep kiss.
You thread your fingers through his hair in a second, and he carefully lowers you to the ground. Swaying you back and forth as you melt into his body, nipping on your lower one before pulling back with a wide, boyish grin.
“Missed you, Princess.” He kisses your brow and you hum, tipping your head back to chase another kiss.
“We’ve been apart for eight hours, De-“
“Too damn long.” His hand finds your lower back, guiding you inside. “I packed for you, figured we could do laundry at your dad’s.”
You raise your brows at him. “Where it’s free?”
“Yep. Walked Indy, fed the demon spawn-“
“Dean.” You give him a flat look, and he rolls his eyes.
“Velma. Fed Velma, and she bit my fucking hand-“
“Did you try to scratch her butt again?”
Dean scowls, dropping his brow to the top of your head and muttering, “Yeah. But she looked fluffy.”
You giggle, taking his jaw and angling it for another, soft and long kiss.
“She never scratches you,” Dean mutters, hanging himself over your body. “Indy never shits on the sidewalk either, when you walk him.”
You hum, pressing a light kiss to the stubble on his jaw. You need to hide his razor, before he tries to shave again. “That’s because you’re a pushover, Deano.”
“Am not.” He grumbles, and you laugh softly. “Cas got the keys?”
“He’ll drop by in the morning.” You murmur. “Did you clean the litterbox-“
“Always do-“
“And wash your hands?”
Dean rolls his eyes, even as you see his lips twitch. “You got so little faith in me, Princess-“
“I’m just checking-“
“You’re bein’ bossy.” He grins at you, and before you can protest, he’s sweeping you off your feet, forcing you to cling to his chest like a Koala as he climbs the stairs.
“Dean-“
“Don’t worry, baby.” He presses a kiss to the side of your head, shouldering the door to your room open. “It’s fuckin’ hot.”
Baby.
I love you, baby.
I need you, baby.
You bury your face in Dean’s neck, taking a deep long breath of his spice and amber shampoo, mixed with the lingering smell of the motor oil and leather from work.
Your head hurts, more than usual. It’s been hurting like that all day, and it’s getting to the point where strange colors start to cloud your vision. This is the exact type of thing Dean would want you to tell him about. The thing you’re supposed to tell him about, because that’s how this relationship thing works. And he tells you all about his PTSD flashbacks from the military and the car crash that killed his mom, along with the nightmares about his dad’s final moments in the hospital. You have each other. You always have each other, and he won’t judge you if you tell him you can hear his voice—although a little hoarser and more exhausted—calling baby, I need you, baby-
“Called Sammy.” Dean says, and you blink.
You’re on the road. You don’t even remember getting in the car, but you’re on the highway with Dean’s hand resting on your upper thigh. His thumb is rubbing small, tight circles on the skin under your skirt, and his eyes are fixed on the road. The muffin is half eaten in your lap, and you have a vague, hazy memory of trying to give it to him, then being met with I’ll eat it if we share.
That is something Dean would say. He’s said it before.
But the words seem swirled, and crowded in fog. This is your third blackout of the day.
And Dean doesn’t even seem to have noticed.
“He’s got some big phamasuitible thingy.” He hums, you raise your brows at him, and he frowns. “Pharamsuit… nickle?”
“Pharmaceutical?”
“Yeah, that.” Dean grins down at you. “So smart, Princess-“
“Shut up. I know you get it wrong on purpose.”
“Can’t prove it.” He shrugs, looking back to the road. “Anyway, Sammy’s gonna be on TV ‘cause of it. I think we should fly out to SF to cheer him on in the courtroom.”
You snort, tipping your head back of the bench of Dean’s car. “De, he’d never speak to us again.”
“He’d speak to you. Likes you more. And he’d forgive me. Not the first time I’ll embarrass him, won’t be the last.”
“It could be, you know. Violence breeds violence.”
“Nah.”
You giggle, leaning your head on his shoulder. “I’m not saving you when he sends you to jail.”
“He can try.” Dean shrugs. “And you never gotta save me, Princess. I save you.”
You roll your eyes, but smile all the same, and turn your face to bury it in his side. Dean just hums, turning up the radio, and you yawn. He smells good. Feels warm and safe.
This time, when everything goes dark, it’s because you actually fall asleep. And when you wake up, you’re still in the car, but Dean’s gone, and his jacket is draped over your body. You rub your eyes and blink out the window, managing to find the big neon words of Exxon glowing in the night.
Gas.
You shuffle with your phone, pulling up Sam’s contact and frowning at it. There’s something is your gut and chest that’s clenching. All the lights are a little too bright again, the world seems to be bending into you, and it can’t hurt to call him. Just to see what his ETA is to your dad’s, and if you’re going to be there at the same time. You don’t even know if he’s bringing Jess or not, and if he is, you’re going to have to alter your grocery plans.
It’s not weird to call him in the dead of night, either. He was your friend before you met Dean. You talk all the time, and something in you can’t stop feeling wired and taut, and it’ll relax if you just call Sam.
So you dial the number, and it rings.
And rings.
And rings.
“Hey,” Sam’s voice comes through the speaker, and you swallow. “This is Sam Winchester, leave a message.”
The line beeps, and you hang up and send him a text.
He doesn’t answer. And that same, strange feeling seems to be pushing up, up, up under your skin, so you call again. Get voicemail again.
Something feels wrong.
“Hey,” Dean frowns as you shuffle out of the car, right over to his side before dropping your face onto his shoulder. “You alright, sweetheart?”
You nod, twisting one of the rings on your finger—the one Dean gave you a little after you first met, before you were even dating, because he’d seen it in a pawn shop and thought you’d like it—and he sighs. Moves take your face in his hands, thumb running down the bridge of your nose.
“I know when you lie to me,” he mutters your name and you blink up at him, trying not to get lost in how he looks almost golden in the light of the gas station. “Tell me what that pretty brain is thinking.”
You open your mouth, and another rush of pain slams into your body.
Dean frowns down at you, your face cradled between his hands as you curl into your body. Both of you sat on the floor, concern written all over his handsome, exhausted features. You’re so tired, and he’s telling you to rest, but you can’t. Not yet. His thumb pets down your nose, and he leans forward, pressing a kiss to your brow. He smells like spice and grass, and you can’t lose him, but you don’t have enough time. You’re in so much fucking pain, and when your gaze falls to your own hands, all you can see is fucking blood.
“Mornin’ kiddo.”
You sway in the middle of the hallway, the pain turning back into a mindless, odd and numb feeling in your body. Dad is in the kitchen, flipping pancakes and humming to the radio, and he gives you a small smile and nod.
“Um- I-“ You clear your throat, frowning around you. You were just in the parking lot, leaning on the Impala, and you’d been about to tell him something important. “What time is it?”
“Eight. Sit’down.” Dad nods to one of the wooden chairs and you nod weakly. “You two got in real late last night, didn’t think you’d be up till noon. Dean still knocked out?”
“I- Yeah?” You shake your head, and all your thoughts feel like they’re swirling. Blending together and wading through each other, and you don’t know how you got here, but you’re also not sure what here is. It’s home, but it’s cleaner than you remember it.
You think.
What you remember of it is either too glossy and plastic looking, or fogged over and painful to think about.
“Sam ain’t gonna make it, by the way.” Dad grunts, and you frown.
“Dean said they called last night-“
“Flight got delayed.” Dad shrugs. “Gonna try ’n catch the next one, but we don’t gotta wait on him.”
You open your mouth to give some kind of protest, but Bobby just keeps talking.
“You best get your idjit up, kiddo. I ain’t makin’ extra pancakes.”
You nod, and shuffle upstairs to your room.
Not your room.
It’s the same thing as the kitchen. The only thing you’re sure is yours—certain that it belongs there—is Dean. Sprawled and snoring on your mattress, shirtless and handsome, completely relaxed in a way you almost never see-
Pain slices through your brow, and you do see him like that. All the time. Last night, and every night before that almost four years. But the thought has that sharp, shiny edge to it, and when you dwell on it too long all the colors seem off.
Something’s wrong. And Dad told you to wake Dean up, but some strange part of you—just to the right of your heart—pleads to let him sleep just a little longer. So you grab an old notebook and shuffle back into bed, smiling when he immediately trades the bunched sheets in his arms for rolling over and latching around your waist.
You try to call Sam, again. Get voicemail, again.
And you start to write. Scrawl out your name, and everything you’re sure you know. The year you were born, the current date, your age. You were born in South Dakota, raised by your single father after your mother died in a break-in when you were little, and everyone always says you look more like she did. You went to college in California, met Sam Winchester, and your father treated him like a son. Then you met Sam’s hot older brother, and-
No, you didn’t.
None of that is right.
You were born in Chicago. Your last name isn’t legally Singer, and Bobby isn’t your biological father. You ran away from your family, and he adopted you. You never went to college, and you didn’t meet Dean in a museum when he hit on you and conveniently didn’t mention he was Sam’s brother. You met him in a coroner’s office, wearing a jacket that was a little too big on you, and going against the one rule you’d always known. But it had been worth it, just to have one conversation with the pretty boy you’d like to crash into from the moment you saw him.
“How’s work, Dean?”
You’re at the table. You’d been in bed, but now the sun is setting and you’re at the table.
You don’t know what’s fucking happening to you.
“It’s alright.” Dean shrugs, taking a swig of the beer Dad had passed him earlier. “Nothing interesting. All the jobs we got lately have been boring, fuckin’ Hondas and Toyotas.”
You let out a soft laugh, and Dean rolls his eyes.
“She threatened to crash my Baby,” he grumbles. “To give me better work to do.”
Dad snorts. “That ain’t a threat, boy, that’s a promise. When she was ten, she hid all my tools so I could hunt for ‘em. Thought it would be fun.”
“See?” You beam up at Dean, and he’s not good at pretending to glare. “I just want you to be happy, car boy.”
And there’s an odd moment where he’s staring at you. And he looks different. A stronger crook to his nose, a cut on his lip, hair messy and skin covered in a thin layer of grime.
Golden.
For a split second, Dean looks fucking Golden, and he reaches for you with shaking hands, then-
He looks like Dean again. And you might be losing your mind.
“Sure, Princess.” Dean kisses the top of your head and you hum, busying yourself with the steak on his plate.
He always lets you cut it. You don’t know why, but a knife has always felt good in your hands. Like a security blanket.
And Dean and Dad keep talking about cars—fucking losers, but it makes Dean happy that your Dad likes him enough to have a long conversation with him—while your thoughts drift back to Sam.
It’s not like him to miss a dinner like this. He loves coming to your dad’s. Loves the pub trivia downtown that you’ve been dominating together for ten years, and hold a perfection streak for ever since Dean joined your team. If his flight got delayed, he’d just find a new connected one, or fly into another airport and make Dean pick him up.
The worry won’t stop eating at your gut. Worming it’s way deeper and deeper into the cavity of your chest, until it’s more than just discomfort.
“Has Sam talked to you?” You ask Dean, leaning against him as he does the dishes. “He won’t pick up for me.”
“Nah, but maybe he’s on the plane,” Dean shrugs. “Can’t keep tabs on him 24/7, Princess.”
You frown, even as Dean kisses the side of your head. That’s not like Dean. He’d put a tracker on Sam, if he could get away with it. You’re not entirely sure he hasn’t.
And you call Sam, one last time on the porch, but this time you don’t even get voicemail.
The line just goes dead.
Something is wrong. Something is so, so wrong, because he’d text if he’d gotten another flight. And Dean would never not worry about him, and it’s hurts, everything hurts and the edges of the world are blurring and something’s wrong-
Your phone rings, and no sooner has your gaze shot down than it goes dead. Then it rings again, but you blink.
The third time, you see it.
The briefest flash of Sam Winchester, before it vanishes. Your hands fumble and fingers shake as you try to call him back, but your phone is dead. Black screened, and cracked in places it hadn’t been before, and something is wrong-
You can hear it. In the distance, drifting on the wind, you can hear Sam calling your name from the woods.
And you don’t think. A strange blur kicks into your body, and you just run. Sprinting through the dark and hacking through the trees—you’re not sure where you got this knife, but it fits well in your hands so you’re not going to let it go—screaming Sam’s name back so he knows you’re coming. That you know something is wrong, and you’re going to fix it, even though you’ve never really been good at fixing anything-
You stumble to a stop as his voice calls back from somewhere behind you, and you whirl around, scanning over the darkened brush until you see it.
Sam. Bloodied and bruised against the truck of a tree, his hair pressed to his brow and body hunched over in pain.
It hits you, in a split second.
You’re in the cage. You’ve been in the cage, and none of this is real. The real Dean and Bobby are back on Earth, while you and Sam are trapped in Hell.
It’s a strange Hell.
Now isn’t the time to think about that.
You skid to your knees at Sam’s side, taking his face in your hands and trying to examine the damage. He’s hurt. Hurt so bad, you don’t even know where to start. His arm is at a funny angle, and there seem to be lash marks all over his chest. His purple looks battered. Razed and torn and almost rotted, like an open wound festering in the sun.
You let a little bit of the Silver out, and aim it for his purple. It washes over all the infections, slowly melting them away with gentle light, and you pull Sam into your lap like a child as he moans in pain.
“It’s okay.” You murmur, and it’s not. It won’t be. But telling him that won’t do either of you any favors. “We’re gonna be okay, Sammy. I promise.”
He groans, the Silver seeps deeper into his soul, and it doesn’t embed like it did with Dean. He seems to absorb it, like Cas did, and the Silver flares.
But you can see it, from the corners of your eyes. The Yellow and Red, slowly closing in on the dollhouse world they made you.
Sam groans your name and a lump forms in your throat as his eyes meet yours. He looks to tired, hopeless and desperate.
“I’m here.” You whisper, giving him a sad smile. “We’ll be okay.”
And you won’t be.
Because Sam is ripped from your arms, your voice echoes into a void as the world goes black.
———
He’s home. The sun hasn’t even set over the flat horizon, and he’s home.
You’ve stopped trying to play it cool, whenever you hear the doors swing open and his voice calling your name. If you’re behind the bar you’ll beam up at him and grab his shirt, yanking him down into a deep, long kiss as he frames your face in his hands. If you’re talking to Jo or Sam, you’ll drop the conversation and melt into his arms, letting him sway you back and forth as he kisses up your neck and—when every else start groaning and mocking you—giggling when he whispers that you could take this out back, Princess, wanna let my pretty girl scream.
Today, though, you’re upstairs. Reading one of the worn, thick books he brought you back last time, lying on your back to try and fight the dry heat of the desert.
But Dean calls your name.
And you’ve never known how to do anything but move for him.
He catches you with a wide grin, when you leap into his arms and kiss his dumb, pretty face. Any missed me, baby is turned into a muffled groan as you try to eat him alive, because it’s always so boring when he’s not here. And you always feel like part of you is missing, the moment he gives you a soft kiss on the top of your head and rides away.
But he always comes back. He pinky promised you he’d come back, under the stars with his arm around your waist. And Dean’s a cheater and a liar—what the fancy ladies in town call a scoundrel—but you don’t care.
He’s true to you. Doesn’t lie, would never cheat. Says he’s never had a wandering eye since he stumbled into your father’s bar, bleeding out and on the run.
And, just like now, he always comes home.
“Easy.” He grunts, setting you down with that smug, boyish grin. “Gonna hurt yourself, baby girl-“
“I would never.” You mumble, leaning your cheek on his chest. His heart is still beating, and as your hands slowly travel his back and sides, you can’t feel any new scars-
Dean drawls your name, catching your wrist with a smirk. “You checkin’ me for bullets?”
You flush, but narrow your eyes on his. “Yeah, cause you always drag yourself back to me shot.”
He hums, holding your gaze as his smirk grows. “I would never.”
You glare at him, pushing off his chest. “Shut up, Winchester-“
“Ah,“ He catches your wrist, pulling right back to his chest without a single flinch. “Don’t worry, Princess. Nobody ever worries about me as pretty as you do.”
“You don’t let anyone else worry about you at all.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs, kissing the back of your hand and smirk when he sees how quickly go you soft for him. “But you still do it the best. ’S why I always come back.”
You roll your eyes, but it’s only for the show of it. He knows how easy he makes you melt. Fills you with a heat brighter than the sun, makes all the things your Daddy taught you about watchin’ out for men like him vanish into nothing. Dean tugs you into a long, slow kiss before hooking his arms under your legs, and sweeping you into his arms like the bride you’d never wanted to be.
Not before him.
Never after him.
He keeps kissing you, as you wrap your arms around his neck, and it’s only ever Dean.
“Hey, Winchester!” Someone bangs on the saloon doors before Dean can carry you upstairs, and he sighs as one of his partners barges inside.
“Don’t you see I’m busy, Nick. No one ever teach you to knock before you bang somethin’ down?“
Fucking Nick. He’s one of the less likable people Dean has to work with, only kept around because he’s good the job—you know job means bank robberies and fighting the law, but it’s still adorable how Dean calls them jobs in your presence—but not worth much else. He’s filled with teeth and a leering glare that’s always wandered a little too high up your legs.
You don’t like him.
And you know Dean doesn’t really either.
Nick scoffs. “You’re always busy when we get back, leavin’ us to do the rest of the work.” He grins at you, and you shrink into Dean’s arms. “Howdy, doll.”
“Mister.” You mumble, burying your face in Dean’s neck, and he tenses around you.
“You and the boys can’t do a single thing yourselves?” Dean barks, and Nick raises his hands in surrender.
“Told Mikey you’d be mad, but we got some Marshall askin’ questions on the outskirts of town.”
“Son of a bitch.” Dean lowers you down, giving you an apologetic grimace. “Gotta go, sweetheart. Don’t miss me too much.”
You give him a small smile, and trace your fingers over the crooked ridge of his nose as you whisper, “Don’t think that’s possible, De. Be careful.”
He pulls you back into a hot, heavy kiss that isn’t very nice, considering he’s about to leave again, and speaks against your lips, quiet enough only you can hear.
“Always am, Princess. Just need to keep you and the rest of the town safe.”
Always keeping people safe, you want to tell him, before he walks away. Who gets to keep you safe, Dean. When do I just get to hold my husband, and keep him all to myself?
You know the answer is never. Dean is more than you. Worth more than you. Always saving people, keeping everyone safe—even if it’s not exactly the legal way—and never once asking for anything in return. Always saving you.
But pain rips up your spine, when his fingers slip from yours, and he turns away.
Dean, younger and a little paler, but still with a crooked nose and look determination, blocking you from the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen. Swinging something like a poker, keeping you behind him as he fills little paper cups with water and tosses them all over Ugly. You’re useless. In pain and useless, curling into yourself and clinging to his arm as you both stare at a puddle of glittering, brown water on the floor.
Nick gives you an odd look—tight and not quite worried, but off—and you manage to plaster a smile on your face before Dean turns around for one last look.
“Be back soon, Princess.” He winks at you, and your smile feels a little more real, even as the pain continues to make your muscles sore.
He might see it. Something flashes over his face as he holds your gaze, and he taking a stuttering half step forward, but Nick coughs. And he has to turn away with one last frown, then walk out the door.
You stumble to the washroom the moment he’s gone, feeling fucking sick. And when you fall to your knees, another rush of pain splits you in half.
You’re on your knees in a dusty room, the heat humid rather than flat. Bugs are buzzing in the background, and you feel colorless and hollow, and your breakfast spills out of your gut until you’re slumped against the wall, silent sobs shaking your body because he’s gone. Dean’s gone, and you can’t figure out how to bring him back.
He’s not gone. You have to remind yourself, as you slump against the wall. Dean’s probably just near Rufus’ ranch, taking care of whatever uptight lawman is trying to bother your town.
You still feel a little shaky as you push to your feet, and you don’t want to keep yourself alone. Not when the saloon is too big, your father is off on business a few towns over—he does that more lately, and you think the moment you and Dean give him good news about more family, he’s going to retire—and Jo’s likely handling whatever’s wrong at Dean’s side.
And you can hear Sam, calling your name from outside. He’s better company than almost anyone. He’ll want to see Dean as well, even though always gets bitchy when his brother gets home and shouts Sammy so loud the tumbleweeds roll. You know misses Dean too. Worries about it. Almost as much as you.
But when you push open the saloon doors, Sam isn’t there. And when you hear him shout for you again, it only seems to be drifting on the wind.
You try wandering down to his house, but when you walk on the door no one answers. Second best place is his office, but the only thing there is a withering little plant.
Sam always waters his plant. It was a gift from Jess, God rest her soul. And he’s not at the grave either, when you stop to check.
And Jess is gathering dust. Settling into the grooves of her name and time.
That’s not like Sam, either.
You wander the town looking for him, and you can’t tell if the pain in your gut is from worry or something more. Drinking water’s been clean for months, you haven’t eaten anything strange, and yet you feel fucking sick.
It hits you again, when you wander through the library.
A feeling like you’re being gutted, a spinning darkness fogging your vision, then-
You, Sam, and Dean in a library. Your legs are kicked up on a chair, and you’re talking to Sam about ghosts while Dean grumbles, glaring between you both before frowning at his book.
“Never manage to stay put, do you.” Familiar arms wrap around your stomach, and you tip your head back to see Dean grinning down at you. “You’re lucky I know you so well, sweetheart. Was damn near ready to launch a manhunt when I got back and you weren’t there.”
You glance to the window with a frown, because you haven’t been gone that long. Not long enough for him to fix everything, and look for you. But the sky is painted blood red and soft orange and gold, and-
Dean. Golden. He’s Golden and all over you, and you’re covered in blood, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he holds you in his lap. He even kisses you so gently, like he thinks you’re going to fly away. And you are. But you’d like to be drenched in Gold when you go.
A high whine of pain leaves your throat as the fresh feeling of fracturing, this must be what fracturing feels like, fades, and Dean frowns down at you.
“You okay, baby?”
Baby.
I need you, baby.
“I’m okay.” You whisper, giving him a small smile and twisting your wedding ring on your finger, and Dean frowns.
He’s going to call you on your lie. He always calls you on your lie, and you don’t know how he always knows, but he does.
Yet this time, he just shakes his head slightly, and tips your chin back to offer you a deep, long kiss.
“I’m hungry,” he mutters your name, and you smile against his lips.
“You’re always hungry, De-“
“I’m a growing boy, Princess. And I got a girl at home that needs me well fed.”
You giggle, shaking your head. “You make it sound like I’m gonna eat you.”
“Hm.” He pulls away, eyes teasing and soft on yours. “If anyone must eat me, I’d want it to be you.”
You roll your eyes, but don’t fight it when Dean guides you out of the library and back to your home.
And you love it, when he’s home. You love him all the time—all the way down, a broken voice screams in the back of your head, and you don’t know why it’s in so much pain—but when he’s home, it’s like Heaven’s fallen right into your hands. He helps you make dinner before sweeping you back into his arms, dancing around the empty saloon. There’s no music but there’s his deep, rich voice humming a song that sounds like it’s from a different time, and his big, calloused hands holding you carefully, so it’s perfect.
One on your hip and the other tangled with your own, his movements precise and deliberate as he twirls you and guides you through the movements. He’s always so graceful, for a man built broad and strong. No matter if he’s riding his sleek black mare, Baby—maybe the only thing he loves as much as you—or punching someone square in the jaw for calling you a whore, Dean moves in complete control, and you’d let him take you into the darkest corners of the world as long as he stayed at your side.
Whore.
Your stomach twists, and bile rises in your throat.
The whore, a balding man sneers in a church. Another, colder one sneers in a forest. A man in a dive bar and a bearded man that looks too much like Dean, but without any of the warmth, hisses whore, and there a dark sickness in you that can’t be cured, and whore-
“Princess.” Dean mutters, and you blink up at him. “Y’know, you can tell me if I leave too much. If you need me here, I’ll stay.”
He’ll stay. For you, he’ll stay.
“Don’t need to answer now,” he adds, before you can answer. “Just- Think about it. Okay?”
You smile at him, and nod. “Okay.”
Dean frowns at you for another second, but presses at kiss to the top of your head and squeezes your hand once.
You squeeze it back three times, dropping your face to his chest. I love you.
He hums, and doesn’t push it further. But you can feel his worry, as you eat dinner and talk about his latest job. It’s written all over his face as you catch him up on the latest town gossip—Sam’s hanging around the Ruby girl again, and you don’t like her, but he doesn’t seem to be all that fond of her either, so you don’t think it’ll last—and he nods and hums along.
When you stand from the table, he frowns up at you, and you half expect him to tackle you to the ground. “Where you goin’, baby?”
“Sam’s.” You shrug, turning over his palm and playing with his fingers. “Need to return a book.”
“Can’t wait ‘till morning?”
It can. It should. The town is safe, but wandering at night is never smart.
But something in that sickness—rotten and eroding in your chest, telling you wrong, something is wrong, and you feel faded and wrong—tells you it can’t wait.
So you shake your head, and lean down to give Dean one last, long kiss. He grunts when you pull away, trying to tug you back into his lap, but you push away with a stern look.
“C’mon, Princess-“
“When I get home, Winchester.” You comb your fingers through his hair, and shake your head at the pout on his face. “That doesn’t work on me.”
He sighs. “Had to try.”
You laugh, and force yourself to pull away. If you linger a moment longer, he’ll talk you into retiring for the evening and meeting him on your knees, worshipping each other in the dark.
But there’s a moment. Dean’s hand still in yours, refusing to fully let you go.
And he looks broken. Golden and glowing and broken, his expression exhausted, face gaunt, something almost desperate in his eyes as he reaches for you.
His hand seems to almost slip through yours. And you’ve never seen anything like the Gold in him, and something’s wrong-
Sam calls your name again.
You need to find Sam. He’s not anywhere but on the wind, though. Not in his house, not in the library, not at the ranch or Ruby’s or the cemetery.
And you feel stranded. This isn’t like how a critical part of you leaves with Dean, like a heartline being surgically removed until he returns. This is just wrong. And the longer the pain boils in your body, the dustier and empty this world feels. Empty houses and dead streets and millions of stars over your head, but-
The Sky. It’s watching. It’s going to swallow you whole-
Sam shouts your name again, and it’s on more than the wind. It’s coming from the outskirts of town, where Dean had gone before. You should get him. Tell him Sam may be in danger before you take your own horse—Dean Jr., raised and bred by your husband for you—and ride off into the desert to find Sam.
But an old, strange instinct kicks in, and you can’t. You’ve done this dance before.
And that Dean is handsome and strong, but he’s not Golden.
Not your Dean.
But it’s your Sam you see, when you stop Dean Jr. and slide off.
It hits you again, when you see how much worse he is than last time. The crushing reality of what happened. The fact that you don’t know how much of this has been real, or how long you’ve been playing this game.
Hell.
Still in Hell.
Cradling Sam in your arms as it all starts to fold down. Trying desperately to heal as much of the hurt in his purple that you can, but losing it a little yourself. He’s in pain, and it’s your fault. Dean—the real Dean—would be able to protect him better. Fix him better. Wouldn’t rush the stitch of the Silver, wouldn’t let Sam hurt in the first place.
But you can’t really fucking breathe, because you’re doing this again.
Whispering to Sam that it’s going to be okay before you’re both torn away, and everyone caves over to black.
———
“What’s a girl like you doing on a roof like this?”
You smile into the dark, leaning comfortably back as he crowds all your space. His chin on the top of your head, his hands casually resting on your hips. He’s flexing on purpose, like some sort of bird doing a mating dance, and you tip your head back to give him an amused look.
It never stops hitting you like lightning, how handsome he is. His well-groomed beard, cocky smirk, and deep green eyes, filled with so much life. Even in the dead of night, his face covered in a mask, you’d know Dean anywhere.
“Why’s a guy like you asking?” You smile at him, and he hums, leaning down for a deep, slow kiss.
You tangle your fingers in his hand over your stomach, sighing blissfully as he holds you a little tighter.
“This isn’t professional, De.”
“Don’t care.” He mutters. “Let the city take care of itself for one night. I should be allowed to kiss my awesome wife whenever I want.”
You pull back, giving him a flat look. “Right now, I’m not your wife-“
“Yeah, you are. Everyone knows it.” He grins at you. “You see the news last night? Apparently the Princess is kissing the greatest hero ever known.”
“They caught me kissing Cas?”
He groans. “That’s not funny, sweetheart-“
“It’s kinda funny. Maybe it was Cas, the photos are grainy-“
Dean scowls, and you squeak as he spins your around in his hold, taking your palm and pinning it to the bare, exposed skin of his neck.
“Shit- I’m gonna light you on fire, dumbass-“
“I’d be fine.” He mutters, squeezing your hand three times. “You feel me.”
You give him a soft smile, and nod. You can feel all his love and worry and tension and-
Nothing.
It feels like there should be something a layer below all his usual emotion, but there’s not. Nothing Dean under him. Even all the usual feelings don’t feel real. They feel manufactured, designed, the love without worry or anger and the fear for your safety lined with no awe or desire to hold you close no matter what, and-
He mutters your name, and you swallow.
It’s Dean. It looks like him. Walks like him. Talks like him.
But something still feels off.
“I feel you.” You murmur. “I’m teasing, De-“
“Good. And I don’t care who knows.” He grumbles your name, lowering his brow to press to yours.
He flickers. His shoulders sag, and he flashes with some strange sort of golden light, and there’s a look in his eyes like longing. But you take a breath, Dean keeps talking, and it’s gone.
“I love you.” He mutters. “Gonna shout it from the rooftops.”
You smile at him, playing with the hair of his beard. “What if your dad hears?”
“He’ll deal.”
“He hates me-“
“Yeah, but I don’t.” He captures your mouth in a quick, dizzying kiss. “I’ve told you, baby, you’re awesome.”
You hum, tugging him back down for another, softer kiss. “What about your brother?” You whisper, and Dean shrugs.
“Adam’ll get over it.” He pulls back with a goofy grin. “Or- Mike’ll get over it. Get it, sweetheart. Cause his supername-“
“I get it, De.” You frown at him, something itching and painful at the back of your scar. “What about Sam?”
Dean frowns at you. “Who’s Sam?”
That’s wrong.
That’s so wrong.
You don’t know how, but that’s fucking wrong. The world feels like it’s woven on fraying strings, and Dean- He’d never forget who Sam is. You’re not even sure who Sam is, but you know three things about him.
He’s your friend.
You’re on the same team.
Dean would never forget him.
“Sam.” You whisper, pushing off Dean’s chest. “It’s- Sam.”
Dean just frowns at you. “You alright, baby?”
“I- I’m okay-“ You can’t breathe. You scratch your finger as you speak, but then your hand is flying to your throat because it hurts, and something is wrong-
“Shit-“ Dean snaps your name, and you shake your head, backing away. “Baby, I need you to listen to me, if you’re freakin’ out we gotta get you off the street-“
Baby. A voice in the back of your head screams. I need you, baby.
“No.” You whisper, ripping your hand from his grip, and he could hold you tighter, but he doesn’t. “You’re not- No-“
“Fuck- I need you to breathe-“
“No.” You’re screaming, because you look down at your hand and it’s just your hand.
No blue.
No Gold.
Not Dean. That’s not Dean. Your Dean would never forget Sam, and he’d always be Golden, and you’re trapped with no way out but Sam-
You run. Fly. The pain is eating you alive and something running under your skin sparks, and you can fly. Dean roars after you, but you don’t look back. They got how Dean roars your name wrong. Michael and Lucifer’s toy Dean say it with only anger and worry. Your Dean would be desperate. A little afraid.
Dean’s on the ground, watching you and Sam take each other’s hands. He roars your name, and it’s the worst thing you’ve ever heard. Looping over and over as you fall, but he’ll be safe, this is all worth it because Dean’s safe-
You can hear someone calling your name, far in the distance.
Sam. That’s Sam’s voice. Strained and hoarse and cracking, but Sam.
You follow it until it feels like it’s loud enough to cleave right through your skull, and slam to the ground. He’s somewhere below you, and you’re burning right through the world, down, down through concrete and stone and earth, and you’re so bright you don’t know how Michael and Lucifer haven’t found you-
All the fire goes out, right as you land in an impossibly large basement. More of a cavern. And curled in the corner is Lucifer-
Not Lucifer. Your mind hums Lucifer, the supervillain Lucifer, but it can’t be trusted.
The Silver knows. It stirs and hums, and that’s Sam.
He’s barely recognizable. Half his face is beaten in, his legs pulled tight against his chest. Large burn scars seeming to make up half his body as he shies away from you. His purple is stripped raw and fragile, ligaments of is looking melted and large chucks of it missing. And you don’t have time, but you take it slow anyways. Sink down to his side, running your fingers through his hair carefully, and sighing when he leans into your touch.
“It’s okay, Sammy.” You murmur, letting the Silver flow into his purple. “It’s okay.”
You’ve done this before. You’re losing your grasp on how many times you’ve done it, because all the memories blur in your head like lifetimes, but none of it was real. You know what is real—real Dean will always be Golden, and it will keep you sane—but as the curtains draw again and you try to heal Sam, you know it doesn’t matter.
Next time you see him, he might be damaged beyond repair. Next time you’re still going to try to fix it.
Then you’ll be separated, and thrust into another lifetime, and it’s never going to stop.
Michael and Lucifer don’t need to lay a finger on you to break you.
You’re stuck here forever anyway.
Sam’s being taken away as the Silver tries to slam him back together, but sobs start to shake your body.
The world going black as you scream into the void for Dean.
You need Dean.
———
You spin your knife in your hands, and something is wrong with it. You can’t quite name it, but it’s off. Missing from your hands, as well. Maybe your jeans. Something that should be there—on the side of your thighs, or maybe stuck to your shirt—is missing.
“Did y’know in seahorses, the men get pregnant?”
You frown up at Jo, leaning forward on the motel bed and staring at the TV. “What?”
“In seahorses-“
“The men get pregnant.” You finish for her, and she nods eagerly.
“I’d get a man pregnant.”
“You’d have to, if you were a seahorse- Hey-“
You scramble off the couch as Jo throws popcorn at you, and—because you know you won’t miss—throw your knife in retaliation.
She screams as it lands in the wall over her head, and you burst out laughing.
“That coulda killed me-“
“Only if I hit you.” You shrug, standing up with a shrug, and she scoffs.
“One day you’re gonna hit me, then you’ll feel real bad-“
“Uh huh.” You kneel next to her on the mattress, yanking your knife out and frowning at the dent. “Do you think the motel will notice that?”
“Nah.” She doesn’t look away from the TV as she answers, and you sigh.
“We can’t afford the cops on our ass-“
“Good thing we ain’t usin’ our real names.” She shrugs. “Sam and Dean get arrested all the time, and we’re way smarter than them. Hotter, too. They’re so lucky we talk to ‘em.”
You frown, but before you can even open your mouth, Jo sighs and rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, Dean’s smart and pretty and you love him.”
“I didn’t say anything-
“You were gonna.”
“Shut up.” You grumble, collapsing fully onto the bed. “What’re we watching?”
“Animal planet.” Jo pauses. “Would you get Dean pregnant?”
“Yes. But he’d be a bitch about it.” You reach over and take popcorn from Jo’s lap, and she laughs.
“Remember when he stubbed his fuckin’ toe and started cryin’?”
“He just wanted me to baby him.” You mumble through your mouthful. “Soon as we got back to our room he was all gonna kiss it better, Princess?”
Your voice drops to mimic Dean’s deep, teasing drawl, and you keep your gaze fixed on the TV so Jo doesn’t see your slight flush. You’re working yourself up just thinking about it. His hands on your waist and his mouth melded against yours, his moans of your name as you scratched his shoulders and the adoration in his eyes as he flipped you onto your back-
“You’re gonna be a great dad.” Jo snorts, and you clear your throat.
“Thanks.”
You drop your head onto her shoulder, and something still feels off. There’s all the pain in your body, but it’s no different than normal. Jo is here, Sam and Dean are off on their own hunt, and they haven’t sent an SOS. Bobby and Ellen get the whole bar to themselves, and you’re a little worried you’re going to get another drunk dial where they tell you and Jo how fuckin’ proud they are of you two little freaks, but worse things have happened-
You crying in the kitchen, holding Bobby’s hand as he sits with you in a wheelchair. Ellen smiling at you and telling you it’s going to be okay before vanishing to places you don’t know how to follow.
Jo on the ground in the rubble of the church, her blue draining into the ground and leaving stains on your hands-
“You okay?”
You blink at Jo, and she looks okay. Same as she always does.
But when you glance at your hands, they aren’t stained blue.
Yes, they are. They’re blue right on the tips of your fingers, there’s something screaming far off in the distance, and iron that’s blistering your skin and fire that’s licking at your feet. It’s dark, so dark, but you’re glowing silver and there are millions of Red and Yellow eyes watching you-
Jo mutters your name, and the world snaps back into place. “I need to call Dean?”
“No,” you frown at your hands again, but shake it away. “I’m fine, I- I guess I’m just tired.”
“Alright.” Jo doesn’t look like she believes you, but it doesn’t matter. You sink back into the mattress, and watch the seahorse float around the screen, a voice talking about their courting rituals.
Something still feels wrong.
You still can’t quite place what.
Your phone rings around midnight with your nightly call from Dean, and Jo’s already knocked out, so you sneak outside to sit on the curb as you answer.
“Hey, Princess.” There’s a clattering sound, and you frown into the dark.
“You okay, Deano?”
“Yeah, Sammy just dropped something.” He sighs, seeming to raise his voice to a shout and lean back from the speaker. “Stop fuckin’ with the heater, Sammy, I’m already sweatin’ balls.”
You giggle, and he lets out an exasperated sigh as he returns. “Sweating balls?”
“It’s Arizona. It’s freakin’ hot. How are you ladies doing, on the easy side.”
“Do you mean the vamp nest we cleared in one night?”
He scoffs. “Yeah, yeah, you’re better hunters than we are-“
“Jo says you’re lucky we talk to you.”
“She’s not wrong.” Dean drawls, and he’s not even looking at you but you can feel the heat of his gaze. “I ever tell you that you’re the best freakin’ thing that ever happened to me, baby girl?”
“Yeah.” Your thighs are pressed together. Dean can’t know, or he’ll somehow talk you into a public indecency charge. “Last night. And this morning.”
“Yeah, well you can’t hear it enough-“
“Not worried about my ego, De?”
“Nah.” You can almost see his relaxed, wide grin. “Anybody gotta be full of themselves, should be you.”
“Okay, Cowboy.” You smile, tipping your head up to look at the stars.
Something’s off there, too. Something that should be there, but isn’t.
This world has holes in it. Tears in the seams, fraying edges, and you’re talking to Dean, but the world isn’t Technicolor-
The colors.
The colors are wrong.
“Dean.” You whisper, too many crashing memories and twisted realities rushing through your head to think in a straight line. “Can- I need you to do something for me.”
He hums. “Anything, Princess.”
“Put Sam on the phone.”
There’s a pause, and your heart feels like iron. “He’s in the bathroom.”
“Dean.” You sound like you’re pleading, and it’s not your Dean, but you don’t care. You just need him and miss him, and you don’t know what to do- “Dean, please-“
“Sweetheart, he’s just on the shitter-“
“No, he’s not.” Speaking is a strain, every word being pushed through your throat. “Dean- I- I need to talk to Sam-“
“Can’t you talk to me?” He snaps, and a choked sob shakes your body.
Lucifer and Michael got that wrong, too. Dean would never shout that at you. He’d just sound hurt.
At the very least, it makes this a little easier. You hang up the phone without a word—no Gold on your hands as you slam it against the pavement—and wrap a hand around your throat. You can feel it again. The Silver, the root of all the pain, rioting in your body and begging to be freed, to free you from this literal fucking Hell-
This world is better constructed than the previous one. They’d been smart to put you in something so close to reality, and you really can’t figure out how long you’ve been here. It hurts to try and think about it, because then there a rattling, glossy memories that never happened.
But it’s still wrong. So fucking wrong, when you squint and turn your head just slightly to the side.
You can see the fire. The eyes and the iron and the cage, shimmering just behind a veil.
This world is thin.
So when the Silver finally burst from your body—made of furious pain and Gold flickering on your hands as your vision splits in two—it shreds right through it.
There’s a split second where you might be dying. Falling and crashing and bursting. Growing up, up, up and out. The Silver cleaving a clear, clean hole in the door to the cage.
And there he is.
God.
Far up in the sky, peering down at you in the cage, waiting to see what you do as the door already starts to mend itself shut.
Dean’s up here.
But your gaze falls down, and Sam’s in here.
Lucifer and Michael are splattered over the walls. Not dead or destroyed like Anna, but hurt. For a brief time, nothing more than electricity and skeletal wings.
And they haven’t been hurting you.
But they’ve been hurting Sam. He’s barely recognizable, shaking in the corner of the cage and blinking at you in rapid fear as you approach him.
You’ve done this before. You know you can do it. And you don’t have as much time, but you need to be more careful. Let the Silver flow gently, trying to mend and fuse Sam’s purple back together before it’s too late. He won’t survive like this, even when Dean finds him. So you work quickly, using the lingering stitches and casts from all your previous healings to bridge the biggest gaps. Pour all your Silver into where Sam’s missing himself, and waiting for it to grow back—if a little misshapen—before carefully grabbing Sam’s shoulders.
He mutters your name, his voice a little hoarse. “What are you doing-“
“You’re getting out.” You give him a small smile, and his hand flies to your wrist, his eyes widening.
“No, wait- You can’t-“
“I can-“
“But you-“
You plant your hand over Sam’s mouth, because Michael and Lucifer are putting themselves back together, the door is almost fully shut. He can hate you all he wants, trying to pry you away and shaking his head. But right now, with how broken his soul still is, you’re stronger.
And you can think of life. Bobby’s voice telling you that it’s gonna be alright, kiddo. Eating ice cream with Cas at midnight. The noise of poker being played in the kitchen and a mixtape blaring from a car stereo and life.
Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean, hands and grins and teasing words and Gold. Holding you with it. Defending you and Sam with everything he has. Watching TV on the couch. Tossing Sam a beer then dropping at your feet. Taunting and fighting and carrying and crying and Life.
Life.
The Silver flows into Sam’s purple, and you let out a soft, delicate breath of Life.
He flickers, his purple rising up, up, up, and vanishes.
The door closes, and Michael and Lucifer put themselves back together.
But this time, when the black closes around you and veil is pulled over your eyes, Sam is safe.
———
The winter is gray. Heavy and fogged all around you, the sun hidden behind layers of gray and most of the light from your lamp hazy and misted.
You wait on the outskirts of the forest, watching the light in his cabin flicker. You’re not welcome inside. Not because he doesn’t love you, but the opposite.
His father would kill you.
Drive a stake through your heart, and leave you to crumble to ash without a second glance.
But Dean isn’t his father.
And when he’d found out, he’d had the stake aimed for your heart, and you’d been ready to let him drive it through you. His hand on your waist and his eyes twisted with a pain you know all too well. If he had to kill you, it wasn’t as if you wouldn’t understand. You’d tried yourself, after you’d died and woken up hungry, but never been brave enough.
Dean was brave enough. So you’d smiled at him and tipped your head back in surrender. This was what he had to do. What he had to be, not able to fit with what you’d been for longer than you can remember.
Dean always fit with you. Slotted perfectly against your body in a way no one ever had.
And maybe he’d felt it too. That this was about more than desire, and a need to never be alone again. It was just you and Dean, until he was in the ground and you lay down at his side, or something dragged you down to hell and he found his way back to your side.
He hadn’t killed you.
He’d dropped his brow between your breasts as the stake fell to the ground, shaken his head and murmured your name like a prayer.
“Can’t. I- I can’t.” He’d sounded like he was pleading with you, and you combed your fingers through his hand. “Help me, Princess, I can’t fuckin’ do it-“
“I know.” You’d whispered, clinging to him as you both sank to the ground. “We’ll figure it out, Dean. We’ll be okay.”
And something had tried to break through your skull like lightning. Another forest, and another man that was large in your arms but small under your hands. Telling him it was going to be okay. Wishing that it could be any other way but this one.
Now, you just waited for him to find you. Return to your side, because he always did. Like the way the moon turned, and the spring flowers always bloomed—no matter how bleak and cold the winter got—Dean came back to you.
He doesn’t sneak out. He just walks out the front door and into the town, letting out three long whistles that echo on the wind.
The signal.
It’s safe for you to follow.
You try not to stumble and scramble over yourself. You’re supposed to be something delicate and dangerous and elegant. All the towns people already suspect you of being not quite what you seem, if only because you live in a stupid, too big castle with only the butler as company. It doesn’t help that your husband hasn’t been seen in decades—he shouldn’t have turned you, not when you were already so handy with a stake—and your lie of being your own granddaughter doesn’t seem to be selling.
But it’s Dean.
And he makes you a giggling, ditzy mess of a fool. His hands on your hips when he twirls you around in the air, his mouth when he kisses you and tastes like the expensive cinnamon his lawyer brother always brings back from his travels. His voice deep and teasing and musical.
“Missed you, Princess.” He mutters. “Run away with me.”
You smile against his lips, and shake your head. “One day, you’re going to stop asking me that.”
“Never.” He nips on your lower lip, swaying you back and forth and grinning as you cling to his chest. “There needs be somewhere that we can go. Sammy’s been telling me about these pink beaches across the oceans. I know you love the ocean, sweetheart. We could go there.”
You sigh, shaking your head. “I can’t go in the sun, Dean.”
“Then we’ll go north. Heard about those places where it’s night all year. Heard people talk about the lights dancin’ in the sky.”
“The aurora borealis?”
“Yeah.” He grins down at you, pressing a sloppy kiss to your cheek. “We could go there. I’d follow you to hell, baby. You know that.”
You do. And you’d like to go where it’s always dark, and you could see Dean every day.
But you can’t.
And, when he starts to dance with you in the dark, another little bit of reality crumbles down.
Dean holding you in the middle of a messy room, swaying you back and forth without music, talking about nothing and looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.
You sort of feel like it.
There’s never a moment in Dean’s arms—your brow on his shoulder and his hold on you so carefully—where you don’t feel like you could be the only thing in the world. Where you don’t feel like, as long as you have his Gold, nothing could ever possible hurt you again.
You blink up at Dean, and this is another puppet. Another well-designed, near perfect replica of him.
But he’s not Golden.
Michael and Lucifer have been at this for longer than you want to think about, and they still can’t make him Golden.
You don’t try to scream or run. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. The darkness is closing in as they realize that you’ve broken free again, and you press your face to Dean’s chest with a sigh.
He’s warm.
It’s still not real.
And you’ll feel better soon, as soon as you forget.
———
This time, it hits you in the middle of the street. Cameras are flashing and Dean’s hand is slotted in yours as he pulls you through the crowd. People are screaming both your names—it’s strange, to hear them screamed in desire and admiration rather than fear—but you’re only looking at him, because you’ve only ever looked at Dean.
The sweet, good-girl image your brand had cultivated for you had crumbled the moment he’d walked through the door. It didn’t work to have an untouchable sex bunny—wanted, but untouchable—when you were always seen being swept off your feet or sitting in Dean’s lap.
But you didn’t care. You’ve never cared, as long as it was Dean. You’d never been this happy, before him. You didn’t think you could be happy after. It didn’t matter how many mink coats and fancy trips to Paris executives and businessmen offered you, or how many stories broke about you running away with the boy from the dust bowl and his pretty smile.
You just wanted Dean.
And the cameras are flashing, and Dean’s glaring around as people try to touch you, but his hand is tight in yours and he’s not going let go.
Then someone lunges to grab you—maybe just a rabid fan, maybe a member of the gang Dean had been tied up in, unhappy with you stealing their rising star—and when Dean spins you out of the way, your free hand flies up to grab his forearm.
The hallway is dark and long, and there’s a sickening feeling in your gut as you follow Dean through the dark. He’s got the gun, and you’re barely in control, but it’s going to be okay.
It has to be okay.
You have to get through it.
You always do.
And if you fall—when you fall, because there’s a monster shredded to nothing, all just as a message to you—Dean will make sure you’re safe.
He always does.
His fist flies, connecting with the man’s jaw, and they really are getting better. You’re lasting longer each time—you think, there’s no way to really know—and that’s exactly how Dean throws a punch.
But he’s not Golden. And it doesn’t matter how good Michael and Lucifer get. You always still figure it out.
And it doesn’t matter how many times you figure it out.
The darkness always closes in.
And you’re going to be here forever.
———
He’s been staring at you for almost an hour, your head in his lap while he plays with your hair. Your attention mostly fixed on the TV in front of you, because he wanted to watch this movie. Dean’s the one who dragged you into the living room, muttering that you needed to watch this movie.
But you’ve been able to feel his attention.
And when you roll your head to meet his gaze, he grins at you. Wide and charming and content, his thumb tracing over your mouth, his eyes narrowing when you open just enough for him to push it between your lips.
“Jesus, baby.” He moved back to stroking your hair, but you can hear the strain in his voice. “Bobby’s a room over-“
“No, he’s not.” You grab Dean’s hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, and he frowns at you.
“He said-“
“He always tells you he’s home cause he wants grandkids, but don’t got not interest in seein’ how we make them.”
Dean pales slightly, his chuckle not the deep, rumbling sound you’re used to. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Old coot.”
You frown, reaching up to angle his face around, and he raises his brows.
“What’re you doing, Princess?”
“You’re being weird.” You mumble, tipping his chin back. No cuts. “I know when something’s wrong, De, you-“
You and Dean in the dark. He’s Golden, watching you carefully as your fingers trace and press on his face, and he says something with a dry laugh and you frown. And your fingers linger, and he holds your hand, and the glow of the bathroom makes him look like he has a halo when he squeezes your hands, and tells you all the way down.
Then you’re in an old saloon. And he’s not Golden anymore, but he’s holding you even closer. Your fingers trail over his chest, and something is wrong, but you’re in Dean’s arms so it can’t really be that bad.
“It’s, uh-“ Dean sighs, and you blink at him, your fingers curled on his jaw. “I’m not- I just wanna talk to you about something. Nobody’s dead. Or injured. It’s just-“
He coughs, and your hand hooks around his neck as you push yourself up, a horrible, rotting feeling brewing in your gut.
“Dean Winchester, if you made another demon deal, I’m going to fucking kill you-“
“No, not that.” He laughs softly, helping adjust you in his lap. “Though I like the faith you’ve got in me, sweetheart-“
“It’s not about faith.” You grumble, glaring at his fingers. “I don’t- I can’t do that again, De. I can’t almost lose you, I can’t pretend it- You promised-“
“Hey,” Dean mutters your name, holding your face gently between his hands. “I’m here. I love you, and I’m not trying to go anywhere, Princess. Ever. All the way down, right?”
You sniff, nodding. “All the way down.”
“Good.” He gives you a tight smile, pulls you closer, and suddenly won’t look you in the eyes at all. Dean’s face drops to your shoulder, mumbling words you can’t make out, and you frown, combing your fingers through his hair.
“I can’t understand you, baby.” You mutter, and he lets out a slow breath, leaning back again.
“You know how Sammy and Bobby are always on our asses about bein’ so gross. And they, uh-“ He clears his throat again, frowning intently at your boobs. “They joke. About how we should have kids. And, y’know. Fully settle. Not just do off hunts, quit like they did. You could focus on writing or, uh- Music. And we’d be living the honest way boring people do, but-“
“Dean.” You whisper, ducking down slightly to meet his gaze, and he looks so nervous. Like he isn’t the only person in the universe you’d ever want to do this with. “Do you want to retire and start a family?”
He gives you a small nod, and you beam at him, ready to tell him yes. Always. It’s all the way down, Dean, because I-
Dean on his knees, and you’re promising not to leave. And he’s Golden, and the Spiderweb sings as he holds you so close, and you want to tell him. Some small part of you always wants to tell him. But you can’t.
The Spiderweb. It’s not inside of you.
And Dean’s not Golden. Not yours.
But there’s another fucking moment. Where he looks Golden. Where he shifts and changes and looks like someone’s put him through a meat grinder, and there’s nothing but longing in his eyes, and you’re going to scream because it’s not real.
But it looks so fucking close to it. That’s your Dean. And you try to lean in to kiss him, taste him, hold him. But then he’s gone again.
“It’s okay if you’re not ready,” Dean—fake Dean—mutters your name, his head dropping back to your shoulder. “I’d just- I can never imagine it with anyone but you. Could never imagine this,” he takes your hand, twisting the wedding ring on your finger—you have a wedding ring, and when you look at Dean’s hand he has one too, and oh God—and presses a gentle kiss to your neck. “Either. Love you, Princess. And if you don’t want it at all-“
“I want it.” You whisper, and the darkness comes too fast.
You shouldn’t want it to linger. But this is a Dean who’s never seen Hell. A world where you’ve never lost him, and the future doesn’t have a rope around your neck and wrists. Where you get to always have Dean.
“You’re the only one, too.” You whisper, lips ghosting over his. “Just you, De.”
He grins, tugging you slightly forward into a deep, long, full kiss, and you don’t try to pull away as the darkness folds around you. He doesn’t taste like cinnamon, and he’s not Gold. But it’s still Dean. And he’s happy here, and when you let your eyes flutter shut, you can see it.
A world where he’s always happy, always yours, and you somehow get to be his.
God never comes for you. You have that sweet, easy life he’s always mockingly called apple pie, but then you make him one for his birthday and he picks you up and spins you around. There’s a little boy with his eyes, but there’s never anything broken or hollow inside of them. A little girl with your hair, and Bobby teaches Dean how to do braids. And you die not in blood or fire, but on a porch as the sun sets, your head resting easily on Dean’s shoulder.
You keep your lips pressed to Dean’s, as he fades away.
And you can, really, truly, almost fucking see it.
———
He’s knocking on your window again.
You don’t know how he always manages to do it. Sneak past the dogs onto your family grounds, getting up the hill without being spotted, climbing the tree without damaging a single branch or falling. It had been more plausible when he’d been a scrawny ten-year-old boy, clambering up to your windowsill and grinning at you through the glass, ready to show off his broken nose.
You’d scrambled to open the window, that night. Grabbed his face and angled it to check for further damage, all while he laughed and told you he was fine. That you should’ve seen the other guy, that his dad said it was a battle scar, and he should wield it with pride.
“You’re gonna get hurt, De.” You’d whispered, and he’d shrugged.
“Nah. And I’m out here learning how to protect you, Princess. One day I’m gonna be strong enough to break you out. Then you’ll see.”
You’d sighed, but let it go. He’d been gone for a month, and you didn’t want to spend your time fighting. You’d wanted to make him sit with you on the floor while you mapped out all the family dynamics for him, and he asked questions. Then he’d told you about the last movie he and his little brother had watched, or the last hunt his dad had gone on.
And the years had passed, and he always talked about breaking you out, but you didn’t hold your breath. You’d both known what the other was, from the first moment in the church, all those years ago.
You’d felt something staring at you, and but you’d been inside, so it hadn’t been the Sky. Then you’d turned, and there had been a boy grinning at you from the very back of the pews. He’d been beautiful. The kind of beautiful you didn’t know boys could be.
He hadn’t smiled like the boys you knew, either. His smile had been all teeth and unruly emotion.
You might have fallen for him there. Or just right after, when he’d pulled you off to the side while the congregation drifted apart.
“I’m Dean.” He’d said bluntly, staring at you like you were a star, and you’d flushed. “You’re pretty.”
“You- You too. I mean- Thank you.” You’d swallowed, trying to clear the dizzying feeling from your body. “I have to go.”
“Wait!” He’d caught your hand before you could run away. “You gotta tell me your name-“
“My family doesn’t want me talking to people.” You blurted, and he’d frowned at you.
“That’s mean. Do you at least got siblings?”
“Yeah, but they don’t like talking to me either.”
“That sucks. I’ve got a brother, but he loves talkin’ to me. It’s all he does.” Dean had paused for a second, and you could’ve tried to run again, but you didn’t want to.
You’d wanted to stay with this strange boy, telling you more about himself than you deserved to know.
“My dad doesn’t like talkin’ to me.” He’d offered softly. “He doesn’t like talkin’ at all, since my mom died.”
“Oh.” You’d mumbled, and no one had noticed you were gone yet, so you’d taken a step closer. Back to Dean. “How’d she die?”
He’d opened his mouth, then closed it with a frown. “I’m not supposed to say.”
“Okay.”
He’d blinked at you. “Okay?”
You’d nodded, and despite everything, held his gaze and taken another step closer. “I understand.”
He’d chuckled. “I dunno-“
“I have things I’m not supposed to tell people either.”
Dean had raised his brows, taken his own, slow step, and you’d known. He could feel it too. The gravity that made you ready to risk something horrible, just to stay next to him a little longer.
“I- I’ll tell you.” You’d whispered. “If you tell me.”
He’d nodded, and that had been it.
Dean knows that your family is insane. You’d cried in his arms when they’d done the ritual, and you’d found out that it was you. You were the one he wanted. And you knew about his dad, and all the monsters, and how he was always sorta worried Sammy was gonna leave him.
You had each other. He came by once a month, twice if you were lucky. Then he left again because he couldn’t linger too long or his dad would come looking, and it would end in disaster.
But he always came back. And you always counted down the seconds until he was knocking on the window—no longer the scrawny boy, but a broader, taller man that really should’ve fallen out of the tree by now—and you could see his handsome, stupid smile again.
“Hey, Princess- Oof-“
You throw yourself into his arms then moment he’s through the window, your face burying in his neck, and his arms wrap around you in a second.
“Missed you,” you mumble against his skin, and he sighs, squeezing your body once.
You squeeze him back, three times—everything is fine, because you love him and he’s here—and he relaxes slightly, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.
“Missed you too, Princess.” He leans back to look at you, and you know he’s looking for visible damage. Evidence that the month has been long. Maybe a bruising hand on your throat from someone who crossed a line, or the bones of your ribs proving that they’re only keeping you alive, and nothing more.
You do the same for him, your hands running under his shirt to check for new scars or bruises. You know he likes to throw himself in the line of fire and act like nothing’s wrong, only to curl up with his head in your lap and whine like a baby as you fix the stitches his little brother’s shaking hands weren’t able to get right.
And when he doesn’t find anything, he gives you a gentle smile, and your fingers curl in his shirt as you tug him down into a long, slow kiss. Dean almost folds over you, his tongue tracing your lips and a slow moan of your name echoing down your throat, and you melt as his arm wraps around you to pull you impossibly closer.
It’s still so new and delicate. The kissing. It had been eleven years of knowing him, and he’s always slept in your bed when you could get away with it, and hugged you a little tighter than he needed to, but he was also a little older. And he travelled the country, and spent nights in cities with women who wouldn’t be as complicated as you were. Who could match him and all his teasing and… experience.
You’d always tried not to think about it, when he was gone. If there was someone else touching him when he was away. If he ever thought of you the same way you dreamed of him, whispered your name into the dark the way you did his.
But then he’d kissed you for the first time, on a humid, June night. He’d been there for your help with a case—an easy excuse for him to see you, as you spent most of your lonely days in the family library, filled with lore books and secretly hoping Dean would come back and you’d be able to offer him something—and you’d rolled your eyes and told him it was a moroi.
He’d stared at you for a second, then kissed you like he was going to die if he didn’t. Touched you like he’d been afraid you’d vanish.
He didn’t kiss anyone else like that. And it didn’t really matter if he did.
You were the one he came back to. The one he held in the dark, and told all his problems, and made promises you both knew he couldn’t keep.
You thought you both knew.
But Dean presses a kiss to the back of your hand and moves to the door. Locks it and dragged a chair to block it, before turning back to you with a determined expression.
“Ready?”
You blink at him. “Ready?”
“We’re going.” He mutters, fumbling with something in his jeans, and-
“Dean.” You hiss. “I told you not to bring guns-“
“Sorry, baby, but I’m not taking risks.” He walks over to your window, frowning at the drop to the ground. “I’m gonna go out first, then you gotta jump.”
“I am not jumping-“
“I’ll catch you-“
“Dean.” You grab his hand, and he looks a little feral when his eyes meet yours.
Desperate.
Afraid.
“What’s wrong?” You whisper, and he shakes his head.
“Nothing. We’re just getting you out of here-“
You shake your head. “There’s nowhere we can run they won’t find us-“
He snorts. “Yeah, there is. I got an uncle in South Dakota. We’ll stay there until we’re sure it’s safe.”
“And then? He’s watching me, De, you know he is-“
“Yeah, but he’s not fuckin’ taking you.” Dean glares into the dark, his voice the rough one he uses when he tells you to roll over or get on the bed, but with a sharper edge.
Something’s wrong. You know it is. You know Dean.
“Can you please talk to me?” You take a step forward, and his gaze softens on yours. “Before I jump out a window?”
He lets out a long, slow breath, put pulls you into his arms, his face planting on the top of your head and his grip almost crushing. You don’t mind. He can hold you until the Sky falls, or the world crumbles, and you both go down together.
“Sammy left.” He grunts, a tight strain in his voice and you sigh, squeezing him once.
He squeezes you back twice, not okay, and you press a soft kiss to his jaw.
“I- I can’t do it anymore, Princess. Dad’s won’t even fuckin’ look at me anymore, and I- I’m tired. I’m so goddamn tired, but I just- I need you, baby.” He’s falling over you, and he’s heavy, but it’s not hard to hold him. He always holds you. “I love you, and I- I can’t do this without you. Please.”
I need you, baby.
A dark room, Dean’s hands in yours, and his face worn with exhaustion, but still handsome. Still the only thing you’ve ever wanted. You love him. And you can’t tell him that, but when he kisses you, it’s so important that he can feel it. That he knows you’re trying to crawl into him, and you never want to leave his arms.
Leave his Gold. Go anywhere it can’t touch you.
Go anywhere Dean can’t mutter your name, and say, “I need you, baby.”
You choke on a strangled noise, and cling to Dean as if he’s real. He’s not. None of this is, and the darkness is coming again.
I need you, baby. A dark room, and street curb, and a saloon. I need you, baby. Dean turning Gold in this prison and being yanked away and I need you, baby. I love you, baby. Baby. On a beach and in a normal life and in a dark room, baby-
“Shit,” he grabs your face between his hands, wiping the tears away with a pained frantic expression. “Fuck- Don’t cry, Princess- what-“
“Do you think it’s going to get better?” You whisper, searching his face for an answer you know you won’t find. “That I- I don’t know. Maybe there’s a life where this is better?”
Dean frowns, his thumb petting down the bridge of your nose, and you close your eyes. You just want to feel him.
Even if he’s not real, you still want to feel him.
“It’s never easy.” He mutters, and another sob shakes your body as you lean into his touch. “But I got you. And I’m good, long as it’s you and me. All the way down, right?”
You can’t breathe. That’s no fucking cruel, and you don’t know how Lucifer and Michael found out about that, but it’s like one of the old Hell’s Assassin’s blades being driven right into your gut.
It’s coming.
And it’s going to hurt until you’re wiped clean, and another decade starts anew.
You still nod into Dean’s hands, and let out a soft, slow breath.
“All the way down.”
———
He’s grinning at you.
He’s so bad at hiding it, you worry that one day someone is going to see. It’s shocking they haven’t. Every time you so much as speak—or sigh, or trip, or breathe—Dean grins, and you have to give him a stern look. You’d caught it the very first time you’d met him, when he’d appeared at your door and informed you that the sweet old man who’d been your guard since you were eight was gone, and he was the replacement.
You’d crossed your arms over your chest. “You don’t look as strong as Bobby.”
“I’m stronger.” He’d grinned at you, and you’d frowned.
“Bobby never smiled.”
“I’m not Bobby.” He’d shrugged. “And he told me you’d try to convince me to let you do crazy shit, and I’d have to say no. So no trying to trick me, Princess.”
“I would never-“
“He said you’d say that, too.”
You’d scowled, and in that moment, you hadn’t been sure if you wanted to punch him, or throw yourself into his arms. He’d been prettier Bobby—who still visited you, and just rolled his eyes when you’d told him as much—and maybe, when you’d tilted your head, prettier than everyone. Nobody had ever spoken to you like that, but he did, and you’d wanted him to talk to you forever. No amount of bared teeth or big words had phased him, because he’d just keep grinning at you and calling you Princess—which was a title, but not the way he said it—and it melted something in you,
And he was stronger than Bobby.
You know—very, very well—just how strong Dean is.
It’s dangerous. Almost unbelievably reckless and—in the words of Ellen when she caught Dean in your room—impossibly stupid for you.
But Dean makes you stupid. He grins at you, and years of training yourself to be strong and smart—calculating and untouchable and clever so that nothing hurts you more than it has to—wash away. You giggle for him. You fold yourself over his body and let him carry you to bed. Listen to all his ramblings about his horse, read him stories because he doesn’t really care for them, but he says he likes your voice. You let him sleep in your bed, even though you’d never even let Jo in your fucking room after dark.
And it’s not a smart thing to be stupid about. You can’t be his. You’re promised. Betrothed. Made only to marry some emperor, like a lamb that has to dance and smile and learn to lie.
But it’s Dean. And no one else could possible turn you into someone so pathetic.
Nobody else could make you like how pathetic you become.
And there’s a fear in you—all the fucking time—that someday, someone is going to see. He’s gotten away with it because everyone is always looking at you. But you only ever look at Dean. And one day someone is going to follow your gaze, see Dean grinning at you, and it’s all going to fall apart.
You don’t think it will be a deal breaker, for the Emperor. You were born for him. But there are two worlds. One where you and Dean are never caught, and he comes with you, and you have him forever.
And one where someone follows your gaze, and you lose him forever.
It would be smart to stop looking at him.
But you don’t know how.
“I hear it’ll be warm tonight, Princess.” Dean had hummed that afternoon, standing against the wall as you read in a hidden corner of the library. “You have any intentions to go for a ride?”
Your gaze had shot up, and he’s just been grinning at you. Brows raised slightly, a level of smugness on his face that isn’t appropriate for someone baiting death every moment he spends in your orbit.
“I don’t ride at night, Winchester.” You’d forced your attention back down to your book, and Dean had just hummed.
“I think I could show you how.”
It had been impossible not to flush, just from his tone. And you’d wet your lips and shift in your chair, making a desperate attempt to appear casual to any passerby, but Dean still knew. He always knew.
Asshole.
“You have any plans for the night, Winchester?” You’d sounded breathless, and prayed no one could hear you.
“There’s a hot springs that my brother enjoys.” Dean’s voice had been so fucking casual, and your grip on the book had tightened. “I plan to visit it myself, see if it is worth the praise.”
Hot springs.
You know where that is. And you don’t think Dean’s diplomat of a brother has ever even heard of it. You’re the one who found it, when you and Jo were kids. The only other people who knew about it were Bobby and Ellen, and they’d never turn you over.
Another stupid thing to do.
Another risk you’d taken, for Dean.
Always for Dean.
Your eyes find him in the shadows—you think you could find him if you were both swimming in the bottom of the ocean—and he grins at you.
So you run to him.
You always run to him, and another fear that festers just to the right of your head is that one day something will rip him from your side. You’ll scream his name and run to him, and then you’ll lose him forever.
But in this moment, at least, you have him. And you can’t be his, but you’ll never be yours unless you have him with you.
He sweeps you into his arms, that handsome grin never one wavering, and spins you around before pulling you down into a long, deep kiss.
“Missed me, Princess?”
Dean, leaning against a doorway, grinning at you. His eyes widen as your legs give out, and he catches you and carries you to the bed.
Dean mutters your name, and you blink at him, shaking your head. “You alright, sweetheart-“
“Yeah.” You smile at him, propping your chin on his chest, and there’s a stabbing pain through your skull but you’re okay. “You’re here.”
That softens him. Mostly.
Although the care with which he handles you is normal. His hand on your waist holding you like he could shatter you, and his gaze on yours like he’s not sure you’re real. His thumb runs down the bridge of your nose and you make a soft, happy noise, your eyes closing in content.
“Wish you didn’t have to get here by yourself.” He mutters. “It’s dark out, baby, could be dangerous-“
“Like you wouldn’t launch a manhunt if I was two minutes late.”
He sighs, and you open your eyes to see him watching you with an unguarded affection and worry.
Something changes. It’s like the Sun falls right into Dean’s chest, and he looks like he’s been to war. Blood on his skin and in his hair, face swollen from beating. And something in him glowing and Golden, his expression filled with such despair it cleaves you open, and-
It’s gone.
You stand on your toes, wrapping your arms around his torso, and whisper against his lips. He always protects you. The least you can do is help him calm down.
“I ate before I left,” you murmur. “Fucking Ketch was on night duty, so nobody even saw me leave. Jo’s ready to help me get back in. And,” you guide his hand to your thigh, and his eyes widen. “I wasn’t unarmed, De. I’m fine.”
He relaxes slightly at the feeling of your knife, under your sleeping gown. The knife he gave you.
Frowning at you on the street, holding out the knife for you to take. Rolling his eyes when you tease him and relaxing when you take it, before climbing into his car.
“Hey,” Dean’s holding your jaw with one hand, his frown deep as another rush of pain almost splits your body. “Where do you keep going, baby? Do I need to get you-“
“No.” You bury your face into the crook of his neck, and he presses a kiss to the side of your head. “Just need you, De.”
He grunts, holding you a little tighter, and sometimes you worry he think it’s a lie.
It’s not.
It might be the only thing you know for sure.
That when he pulls of his shirt and you remove your undergarments—you’re not allowed to shed your gown, because Dean is a pretty dumbass who’s very worried about your modesty for someone who’s about to hold you in his lap until you moan—this is all you could ever, possibly need.
Dean helping you into the water and pulling you into his arms, helping you straddle his thigh before kissing your neck and grinning at you through the steam when he pinches your side, and your squeak echoes though the forest. You push off his chest with a glare, and he catches your hand before you can drift too far away, but you squirm away. And he groans, but gives chase, and you can’t stop smiling but you don’t care. You try to climb out, but his arms wrap around your stomach, and he pulls you back down into the water.
You and Dean, under the stars and sitting at the edge of the pool. He gives you a look of disbelief when you shove him in, but it quickly turns to a grin. It’s all the warning you get before you’re falling too.
The pain is getting worse. And it’s not as if you’ve never been in pain—strange, paralyzing nightmare and ghost of a burn over your wrists—but this is different. Almost unbearable.
Yet you’re not collapsing. It’s as if your body knows exactly how to handle this. When Dean helps you out of the water, wraps you in a warm cloth, it slams into you again—Dean wrapping you in his jacket under the wet, cold water, muttering your name as he guides you inside—but your knees don’t give out. When he says Princess it echoes into the sky, and you turn into a girl, glaring at him in the dark of the car, trying to pretend you’re not already filled with an iridescent light for him. When he kisses your brow, the same moment flashes through your mind a million times with a feeling like your blood is on fire, but you only sigh and hold him a little tighter.
You’re realizing slowly, this time.
This isn’t your life. Isn’t your world. Isn’t your Dean.
But you want to stay here. Where there’s a chance you could keep him, and that he might be happy. That, even if Dean is just as willing to bleed for you as you are for him, you can play it carefully so he doesn’t.
He isn’t, now. When you’re not there to make things harder for him. And you don’t want to think about him having someone else who hugs him like this, who he sways in the dark. You want him to be happy, and you’re never going to escape this place, but you don’t need to think about it.
It just makes you cry, and Dean hold you tighter—not Dean, it’s not your Dean and it’s never going to be your Dean again—as the darkness closes it.
This version of Dean—maybe the closest to the real one, always grinning and covered in scars but so strong, and maybe just as stupid as you are, because he’d never disobeyed an order from the King’s Guard until you asked him to—isn’t going to last.
But you’re still going to hold him.
All the way down.
———
You can hear him.
On the wind, blooming with the flowers and somewhere in the water, in between all the sparks of the fire, you can hear Dean calling your name.
But it’s not the Dean that’s in front of you.
That Dean has always said your name like it’s a name. Filled with fondness and adoration, but a name. His voice on the wind is saying it like it’s more than it’s a prayer. Like it’s the most important thing he’s ever said. Will ever say.
And the Dean in front of you has never called for you like that. Like he’s terrified and going out of his mind with it. Like if you don’t answer, the whole world is going to fall apart.
But your world has already fallen apart.
Because you know. You’re not sure how, this time, but you know. This isn’t real. The Dean in front of you isn’t your Dean. There are no scars littering his body, no tattoo on his chest. He isn’t braced for any sort of fight, doesn’t scan his surroundings like he thinks they’re going to attack him, and his nose is straight, never broken from a fight.
There are no fights, here. It’s all plenty. Crystal water and fruit you can pick at will. The air is always clear, and the sun is always shining, and there’s nothing to hide from in the dark, because there is no dark. Even the shadows shimmer, and you never need to so much as close your eyes to sleep.
So this Dean has never slept, but not because of terror or need. But that means he’s never wrapped himself around you, and you’ve never sobbed into his arms.
And you’ve never seen him look at you like he’s not sure you’re his. Like you’re haunting him.
This Dean kisses you, and it’s consuming and perfect but there’s nothing about it that’s Dean. No trying to pick you up and maybe mold you into his chest. No hands checking that you’re real and trying to leave burning marks on your skin. He doesn’t look at you like he thinks you’re going to vanish.
Doesn’t say your name like he’s lost you before.
That’s how the voice calls for you. Like he’s pleading for something he knows is already gone. He sounds lost, and in pain, and you miss him.
It might be the worst part of this. How you always realize, and then you just miss Dean.
Not just his Gold, or every memory of him that you had to be bitten and bloodied to earn. You miss him. His glowering and grumbling and shuffling around until you pay attention to him. You miss him driving too fast because he thinks he’s always out of time, and you miss him talking to in the dead of night because he’s not sure there’s going to be a morning.
Here, in this paradise, the sky is always hanging over your head. And this Dean never tries to shield you from it, because he doesn’t know how.
And you wish your Dean didn’t know how. But any Dean that’s sort of yours—far from perfect, but still the best thing in a horrible and beautiful world—does. Just like you always run to him, and worry about him, and pretend there won’t be consequences just to see him smile again.
Dean’s not Dean if he’s not shielding you. If his hands aren’t calloused, but soft when they touch your skin.
You’re not you if you’re not trying to get back to him. If you’re not thinking about him.
Dreaming about him.
In paradise, you don’t dream at all.
And you miss that too.
The Dean on the wind shouts for you again, and you want to go home, so you scream back. The guttural noise that leaves your throat is barely even human, and you can’t breathe, and this perfect Dean is just staring at you, because he’s never seen you fall apart. Then the Dean—the one that sounds so pained—roars for you again, and it’s making the Spiderweb bloom, casting light all around the cavity of your chest and the deepest, most rotten parts of you until the Silver sparks, rears its head. And starts to grow. Spreading out and out and up, and you’re everything. The desperate beauty of every flower, the joy of the sunlight, shining through a stained-glass window, the pure fear of a brand-new star, unsure what it’s supposed to do but burn.
You’re everything, but you’re really just yours, because Dean is calling for you.
Dean, your Dean, is calling for you.
So you have to move for him.
———
It’s bright.
It’s so fucking bright.
You take a stuttering, gasping breath of air, and it’s so hot and bright.
Loud, as well.
It’s loud.
The sounds of a city. Of people, screaming and gasping and shouting in languages you don’t understand. But you’re not lying on pavement, and you’re not really sure this is real, but people never screamed at you like that, in Lucifer and Michael’s little games.
You push to your feet, rubbing your eyes and forcing yourself to ignoring the sheer fucking pain in your body. It’s like you were dipped in lava then frozen for a hundred years. Your throat is dry, your stomach panging with hunger, and the Silver rushing right under the surface.
The Silver.
You can feel the Silver.
And when your eyes open, you’re in the middle of a city. It seems to be a desert, given the types of plants and heat. It’s not American—with a strange combination of old looking, crumbling white brick and more modern towers—but that’s not what matters.
What matters is the people. Staring at you on the sidewalks and from windows, each one almost neon with color, but all of them bleeding together and swirling around like a kaleidoscope.
Souls.
You’re free.
A choked sound leaves your throat, and you’re wearing the same things you fell into the cage with—muddied and covered in grime—but you’re fucking free. You don’t know how, or how long you were trapped there, but you’re free.
You tilt back you head to scream—half in joy, half in pain—and it rips through the air of the city, the whole world stuttering to a brief halt as it echoes into the sky.
The Sky.
God.
You open your eyes, head still titled back, and he’s watching you. Just as he always has. Your hand rises to your face—maybe to block the light, maybe to hide from him—and it’s covered in something metallic. Shimmering and made of light and shadow, dripping off your fingers and falling into the earth.
The earth.
Whenever you are, it’s a city. But you were right.
You’re not on concrete.
Spreading from when you stand, as if you’re not in the desert at all, is life.
Grass shimmering with morning dew, flowers blooming and a snake slithering over your feet, vines stretching onto some of the buildings and a hundred butterflies, flying through the air in a hurricane of color.
You’re free. The Silver isn’t trying to break out of your body, and you’re fucking free.
But you look up at God, and you’re never really free.
But you can go back to Dean. Touch him. Hold him, and see all his Gold for more than a broken second.
So you’re yours. And Dean’s.
That’s all that matters.
So you’re free.
End Note: Season six, remix! Here we go! Also, in case you didn't see my "announcement," I'm offering early access to new chapters on Ko-fi! You can find the link in my bio page if you want it, but if not, I love and appreciate you no matter what. Thank you for reading, and see you next week!
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Author's Note: I consider there to be five “big” secrets in Babylon. Here’s the first one.
Chapter Title from The Prophecy by Taylor Swift
Word Count: 19.4k
Chapter Summary/Warnings: You get a call. Usual Warnings.
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action
Chapter 24 - Chapter 26
Read on A03!
“You ever play golf, Princess?”
“Do I look like someone who’s played golf?”
Dean chuckles, the sound a little static through the speaker of the phone. “You want me to answer that?”
“Dean Winchester-“
“You got that fancy walk,” he says your name, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Rich person walk.”
“I do not have a rich person walk-“
“Yeah, you do.”
“Well, then-“ You sputter slightly, scowling at the ceiling. “You have a walk, too.”
Dean snorts. “Good one, sweetheart.”
“Shut up.”
“Bossy-“
“Dean.”
He laughs, the sound filling up the whole room, and you smile into the dark.
“And I do not have a-“
“It’s not a bad thing,” Dean cuts you off, his words suddenly almost gentle. “You walk like you’re gonna punch anyone who gets in front of you. Like, you got- Y’know. Purpose.”
“Oh. Okay.” You pause. You can have purpose. You can’t think of any ideas for purpose—and when you try to, it mostly just circles around from Dean, to Bobby, to Sam, back to Dean—but you couldhave more purpose.
Damnation.
Not that kind of purpose. That’s the kind of purpose that got you here in the first place. Lying flat on your back in the dead of night, your phone propped on a pillow near your head, trying to pretend that Dean was next to you instead of across the country.
Another nightmare. Death watching you and telling you no, Lucifer laughing in the background, Ketch appearing in every shadow, trying to corner you and put you in a muzzle.
Sometimes they end with Death grabbing your hands and wiping Jo’s blue from your fingertips, telling you that she belongs with him, and him alone. Other times it’s Lucifer, slowly shifting into Sam and snapping your neck, but you’re Dean and you can see yourself standing off in the shadows, doing nothing at all. Then Lucifer-Sam will lean down in hiss in You-Dean’s ear that you could have saved him, but just didn’t love him enough, and Dean dies thinking you don’t love him like it’s all you’ve ever really known.
Sometimes, after that, the dream will change. You’ll be back in a motel with Dean—just himself, just Gold, very much alive and not at all real—and you’ll rest your head on his shoulder while he tells you about how this town actually had the best diner in America, and you’ll muffle your giggle against his body because he says that all the time.
But you hadn’t gotten that, tonight. When you do, it’s enough for you to not need Dean. No need to wake him up when he needs the rest more than you do, and you’ll see him in a few days anyway.
He says to call him, whenever you wake up and you’re everything and it’s all too much. You’re the pain of the single tear in your blanket, the strain of the trees outside your window as the wind rips through their branches, the fear of the rain as it falls, unsure where it’s going.
But Dean’s in Connecticut, hunting a demon hoard that’s been terrorizing a country club. He can’t be caught off guard just because the Silver decided to rear it’s head and you aren’t strong enough to handle it without—as he would call it—doing something stupid.
You haven’t been doing anything stupid. You might have caught a small cold last week, standing out in the sleet-storm while Sam and Dean were in Alabama—Hurricane season, trying to find a reaper that might snitch on Death’s location, a failed experiment—but you’d gotten over it quick. Mostly, whenever the everything hits you, you’ve been curling up into the sheets, dragging them over your head, and pretending that it was Dean holding you. His Gold is marked all over them, when you roll to his side of the bed you can smell cinnamon and grass, and it usually, mostly, works.
It takes longer to come down, you never fall back asleep, and when you shuffle downstairs in the morning Bobby always looks at you like he somehow knows that you should’ve called Dean or woken him up, but it doesn’t matter. If you’re a little extra tired, no one gets hurt but you.
You’re not hunting.
You’re just looking for Death and Pestilence, trying to work out Lucifer’s next moves, and—in your spare time, when Bobby’s asleep and Sam and Dean are away—talking with Cas about things.
Things you haven’t told Dean about.
You don’t know how. How to look at him, in all his Golden, handsome, strong glory and say Cas and I are trying to figure out what Men of God are. All signs are pointing to you being one, Mr. Michael Vessel. And Men of God and Magdalene’s don’t have good track records, but you also don’t seem like a normal Man of God. John was a Man of God, though. Ketch might be too. And they both tried to hurt me. So do what you want with that.
And that doesn’t even cover half of it. How Cas still hasn’t worked out what The Magdalene does, only that it’s different. And he can’t spend too much time on it anyway, because he has to find God.
You look like God.
Your name is—according to Cas—written in Marina Trench and the caves of Mount Everest and in the Stone Forests of Japan. The Silver still isn’t cooperating, and Death still doesn’t want you, and after you’d killed Famine, he’s been added to your nightmare roster, but none of this is about you.
You’re not even supposed to be helping. It’s why you’re staying hidden. No matter what the whole Magdalene-Men of God mess is, it’s far from important as the apocalypse closes in.
So you keep researching. And you get nightmares when you sleep, but you really try not to bother Dean with them. He doesn’t need another reason to worry about you, and he needs the rest.
You can get through it.
You always do.
But not alone. Not tonight. The nightmare had been Ketch, but instead of the usual ending—the ceiling falls, but you’re trapped with him in the rubble and he starts to touch you, and John and Lucifer and Alistair and Azazel join him, but when you scream for Dean no sound comes out, right up until you’re ripped away and appear in a dive bar with Dean grinning at you from the pool table—Ketch had gotten you. He’d snapped the muzzle on your face, and the Silver had exploded.
You’d sat up with bed, your hand already wrapped around your throat, but it had been too late.
The Silver hadn’t been contained to your dream.
Before calling Dean, you’d spent an hour weeding your bedroom. Strange, glowing flowers had sprouted through the floorboards, branches had grown over the windows—as if they were trying to block you from the view of the Sky, flaring out your window without a word—and they’d been growing those iridescent apples that you’d tried to preserve for study, but the moment you’d put them on the dresser they’d shattered like glass, the shards melting into nothing.
And you’re so fucking tired. And lonely.
You’d needed Dean.
He’d picked up after the second ring. He’s been on the phone with you for almost an hour, talking about nothing.
You miss him. If he was here, you’d be able to see his smile, drown in his Gold, and he’d run his thumb down your nose until you were only your own. Then you’d fall back asleep, his hand in yours, and everything would be fine.
Not about you.
Calling him is already pushing it. Him talking to you is more than you deserve. But knowing that never has—never will—stop the want. The pull. The need for Dean to maybe just lay on top of you forever, until everything is always technicolor and the Spiderweb is the only thing you can feel in the world.
But you’ll take this. Dean on the phone in the dead of night, the stains of his Gold still all around you.
Whatever bits of Dean he offers, you’ll always take.
“I think you’d like golf.” Dean hums, and you twist your head to look your phone, as if he’d actually be there to glare at.
“Golf isn’t a real sport, De. It’s for rich people and businessmen, trying to jack each other off and assert their dominance while wearing polo shirts. And it’s stupid.”
“Sweetheart, you think all sports are stupid.”
“Wrong. I like Soccer and Football.”
Dean pauses. “You do?”
“Yep. I used to watch them with Rufus all the time.”
“Huh.” You can hear the small frown in his voice. “You told me you don’t care about where the balls go-“
“I don’t. I like soccer because I’d always got ice cream when Rufus put it on, then more ice cream if his team won.”
“We could just get ice cream-“
“Tastes better with victory.”
“Right. Course it does.” Dean chuckles. “What about football?”
“I like the music shows. And I think I’d be good at it.”
You can hear the amusement in his voice. “Cause of the violence.”
“Yep. I’d beat all those big men’s asses.”
“See, that’s why I think you’d like golf, sweetheart. The clubs make great weapons.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m flipping you off right now, you know.”
Dean laughs, and you can’t stop your own smile from tugging at your lips. The Spiderweb is bursting. Even with Dean miles away and only a voice in a phone, it still knows to light up for Dean.
His voice. His joy. The fact that it’s almost three in the morning—five for him—but he’s not making any effort to end the call.
Once he does, you’ll have to let him. Not about you.
Until then, you’ll stay on the line for as long as he allows you to.
“So there’s a joint here that does malt milkshakes.” He says, and you hum, rubbing the scar on your palm as you listen. “And they’ve got the best freakin’ burgers I’ve ever had in my life.”
You giggle. “De, every burger you have is the best burger-“
“Nah, this is it. You’d like it, they cover the whole thing in a fancy sauce, and those milkshakes? They’re free, if you get the combo meal.”
“So they’re not free-“
“They’re free-ish.”
“Something can’t be free-ish, it’s either free or not free-“
“It’s free in my heart,” he drawls your name, and it’s low and deep and teasing, and your thighs press slightly together. “And nothing is better than free food.”
He pauses, and you’re about to take over with a comment about how everything is free for us, Dean, all our money is stolen, but he continues before you can.
“When this Lucifer-Michael end of the world shit is over, you should come check this place out.”
You swallow. You know Dean likes hanging out with you—he’s your best friend, and maybe more, but your rules mean you’re not allowed to push on it—but it still makes the Spiderweb ignite with light and color when he says it. “The burger place? Or the country club?”
Dean chuckles. “Both. You can smoke all these rich douchebags at golf, then we can go get burgers. I’m serious, Princess. You’d love the milkshakes.”
You probably will.
You mostly love that Dean’s thinking of you. Like you’re worth that much to him, to look at a milkshake and think of you.
You’d like to be worth everything to him. He’s worth everything to you.
Not allowed to say it.
“I’ve never played golf.” You mumble, and you can hear Dean’s scoff.
“Trust me, sweetheart. You’d love it.”
“But-“
Dean drawls your name. “It’s about hitting things and looking fancy. Freakin’ sport was made for you.”
You flush, wrapping an arm around your stomach. “Oh. Thanks.”
“No problem.” Dean pauses, his voice dropping to something softer. “Would you wanna do that? If you don’t-“
“I would.” You say, too quick. If Dean notices, he doesn’t mention it. “At this point you owe me a tour of diners in America, Deano. The moment we’re done with this, you better put your money where your mouth is.”
“My mouth is on the burger, sweetheart.” You can hear the grin in his voice, and you roll your eyes. “Score?”
“Six out of ten. You can do better.”
“Aw, you got faith in me.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah, you do. And you laughed, sweetheart.”
“Maybe.” You hum, grinning at the light, slowly starting to dance over the ceiling. “You can’t prove that, Winchester.”
“Don’t have to. Know it in my heart. You think I’m hilarious.”
You’re flushing again. Maybe it’s good he’s only a voice in a phone. You might start crawling over his chest if he wasn’t. “Shut up.”
“No, say it. C’mon you can do it, admit you think I’m funny.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re killing me, Princess-“
“I’ll say it,” you hum, grinning at the ceiling. “If you take back that I look like someone who plays golf.”
“Nah, I’ve got integrity. Said it, meant it, and I was fuckin’ right.”
“Okay, integrity, tell me again about that pool hustle you pulled last night.”
He groans, you giggle, and it really is better.
Even when the conversation turns heavier, it’s Dean, so it’s better.
“Have you-“ You clear your throat, and you don’t want to ask it, but you have to. For your own sanity, so you don’t spend the whole day with your fingers itching and a lump in your throat. “Angels? Or Lucifer?”
“Not yet.” Dean says, and your nails dig into your wrist. “If it is, we’ve got the banishment sigils lined up all over the wall, and all we gotta do is keep saying no.”
You nod, but Lucifer—with all his Red and teeth—flashes over your vision, and you can’t stop your shaking breath.
Dean must have heard it, because he mutters your name softly, but you shake your head and keep pushing on.
“Dean, I- I’m worried about it.”
“I- I know, but shit, Princess, you gotta -“
“The archangels.” You whisper, drawing your knees up to your chest. “I know you and Sam don’t want to say yes to them-“
“We’re not saying yes to them-“
“But they’re not just going to take that.” You raise your voice, and Dean goes quiet. “Zachariah- He hurt Jo just to send a message to me. And Gabriel fucked with you and Sam for a week, then visited me in Europe just because he didn’t want me here-“
Dean mutters your name, an odd strain in his voice. “I don’t give a shit about what Heaven wants, I want you here. And you-“
“I’m not running.” The Spiderweb feels like it’s made of starlight. Not the time. “I’m just- My point is that they did all that just to keep me away. Between San Francisco and LA, they certainly know I’m back by now.”
“So?”
“So Gabriel said I was changing things. And maybe- I don’t know. I just don’t trust that, if we’re playing dirty, they won’t do the same.”
“Princess, they’ve been playing dirty.” Dean’s voice is gentle, but firm. “All those feathered assholes do is play dirty. But Sammy’s not giving Lucifer the green light-“
“What about Michael?”
Dean pauses. “What about Michael.”
“I- I trust Sam-“
“But not me?”
You frown. “Of course I trust you, Dean.”
There’s something sour to his voice that you don’t understand. “Yeah, sure sounds like it-“
“Dean.” You make your voice firm, and he sighs, repeating your name back. “I don’t think you’re going to say yes to Michael, I- I’m just- They’re going to try and make you. And I don’t think they have a lot of lines, and this is already so fucked, and I don’t- I’m not making any progress on Death and things are just getting worse and-“ You take a heavy, shuddering breath, and Dean mutters your name.
It would be really nice if he was here. If he was the one wrapping around you, instead of you just hiking the Golden blanket a little higher over your body.
“Do you think I should say yes?” He mutters, his voice low, and you shake your head.
“No.”
“Alright. Then I won’t.”
“But it’s not that simple-“
“It is. I’m not saying yes. Michael’s gonna have to fist my asshole if he wants inside.”
You wrinkle your nose, swallowing a soft laugh. “That’s gross, De.”
“Score?”
“Zero.”
“Bullshit, I can hear you laughing-“
“No, you can’t.”
“C’mon-“
“Nope.”
“This is elder abuse-“
“You’re thirty.”
“Almost thirty-one. Basically genetic.”
You smile into the dark. “Geriatric?”
“Yeah, that. I’m just a skeleton, sweetheart, you gotta be delicate with me-“
“So dramatic.”
He scoffs. “You love it.”
It’s good he can’t see how deep your flush is. Heating over your cheeks and spreading between your thighs as he starts to talk about how—if you are celebrating his birthday this year—he’d really like a proper, chocolate cake. And you think you can make that happen.
For Dean, you might be able to do anything.
You’re on the phone with him until Sam starts to stir on his end, and he has to go back to the case.
“We’ll be home in a few days,” he says, and you nod, moving the phone to press right back to your ear. Trying to have him a little closer. “Just some run of the mill demon asshats, so this is going pretty quick.”
“Good,” you let out a slow breath, your grip tightening on the phone. “Let me know if you need anything. And if they show up-“
“We got wards and Cas on speed dial, it’ll be fine.” Dean pauses, his voice lowering slightly. “I- I’m glad you called. Are you-“
“I feel better.” You whisper. “Thank you. For picking up.”
You could swear you hear him let out a long, slow breath. “Don’t need to thank me. You’re- I’ll call you later tonight. And I’m keeping my phone on me, so if-“
“I will.” You don’t want him to go. Can’t interfere with work. “Bye, De. Don’t die.”
He chuckles. “I’ll try. Stay safe, Princess. Call me if you need anything.”
You need him.
But you let him hang up the phone, and roll over to bury your face in his pillow the moment the line goes dead. You’ll stay there, until the sun is bleeding into your room. Until the Sky becomes unignorable, and you can hear Bobby rolling around downstairs. The world doesn’t care that you’d like to—just for a day—lie here and do nothing. Clinging to the sheets and pretending they’re Dean, taking slow, deep breaths until you’re certain you’ll be able to keep going. All the way to the end, right up to the finish line—wherever it may come—before crashing into Dean and staying in his arms for as long as he lets you.
You’d really just like this to be over. You’re not just going through the motions, but it’s something similar to it. Get through the night and all its terrors, then let the day creep in as you cling to your Dean-Stained blanket like a child. Go downstairs and give a mumbled good morning to Bobby, who gives you a mornin’ kiddo, in return. Make the coffee, wolf down breakfast as fast as you can—Bobby watching you carefully to make sure you finish it all—and get to work. Earthquakes and thunderstorm, new outbreaks of measles in Ecuador, Beijing, and Cairo. Bobby’s got no luck on Death, but neither do you.
You’ve kept your word to Crowley. You’ve been thinking about it. And the more days pass, the closer you’re getting to making that deal.
You’re not quite there yet.
But you’re close.
“He’s stayin’ off the radar.” Bobby mutters, frowning at his computer. “Both of ‘em are. Pestilence either changed his vessel or went blackout off the grid, after you and the boys tracked him last time. And Death- Fuckin’ ball, I ain’t seein’ anything.”
“Lucifer’s probably saving him for when he’s needed.” You mutter, flipping a page in your book. “He- I don’t remember him being all that happy, with what was happening.”
Bobby grunts. “You think you be able to do your soul-vision thing on him? If he pops up on freakin’- CNN or somethin’?”
You nod, pushing down the memory of Death looking at you, and saying no. “I’ve been checking local feeds whenever an omen pops up. Nothing.”
“Alright. Keep lookin’. And Pestilence-“
“Did it last night. I’ll put it on the fridge after I go shopping.”
Bobby grunts in approval, and you glance up. You’re almost done with this anyway.
“Did you look at the list?”
“Yep. Added a few things, but you handled most of it. Go armed.”
You pull out your Blade, flash Bobby a grin, and all you get is a flat look in return.
“Don’t forget the milk.”
You sigh, pushing to your feet. “I’m getting you oat milk. It’s better for old men.”
“Yeah, yeah, like Dean’ll be happy with the plant milk.”
You flush. “He doesn’t like any milk.”
Bobby pauses. “That’s true, ain’t it. Never seen him drink it without cookies.”
“Not even with cookies. Those were mine.”
“You don’t like milk either-“
“I like cookies.”
“Just eat the fuckin’ cookies.” Bobby mutters under his breath, and you give him a mock salute, crossing the room to the fridge.
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“Shut up and get drivin’ kiddo. You come back with oat milk, and I’m shootin’ Dean.”
You scowl—it’s not good that he knows how effective that is—and grab the list off the fridge.
It’s pinned right between the expired Costco coupon Bobby’s had there since you were thirteen, and your drawings. Crude sketches you’d done a few days after you got back from LA, outlining the Horsemen’s true appearances. You hadn’t bene able to draw Death—something about it had felt wrong—but you’d gotten all the vile oozing of Pestilence, and the gaping darkness you’d seen in Famine.
He’d been like a black hole. A pit. Bottomless and made of shadows, taking and taking and never satisfied. You’d had a feeling, standing across from him in LA and spinning the Blade in your hands, that you could’ve tossed the world into him and he just would’ve eaten that too.
And he hadn’t had a single effect on you. Hadn’t been confused by it, either. Just whined about how it wasn’t fair, and if he could eat your soul, he’d never be hungry again.
You’re trying not to think about it. Just like you’re trying not to think about how, the day after, you’d looked into Dean’s eyes and the floodlight had returned. Staring at him in the golden-blue light of the dawn, you’d been able to see all that life, buried deep inside of him, colorful and luminescent and beautiful.
You missed him. You wanted to wake up like that—next to him, his hand in yours, trying to keep your love off your face while figuring out how you can live in the world of Dean forever—every single morning.
But the apocalypse. And groceries.
It goes slowly. With Sam your divide and conquer plan had done wonders, and you’d been able to compensate for each other’s gross lack of domestic knowledge. And grocery shopping with Dean was never really grocery shopping, but rather letting him guide you aisle to aisle and listening to him ramble about all the different meats and sauces and spices, and what was useful and what was the good stuff, Princess. Trust me. And you’d always trust him, nodding a little stupidly and giving him a soft smile, pushing the cart wherever he told you it should go.
Alone, you’re trying desperately to remember what the good stuff was, and you’re not sure you’re succeeding. Mostly, you’re just grabbing whatever’s expensive. All your money is counterfeit or stolen from banks anyway.
Jo taught you wiretapping a few years ago. She makes fun of you for using it on fancy hotel rooms and makeup, but then she turns around and spends it on a hair mask and the fanciest box of chocolates you’ve ever seen.
You still haven’t visited her, at the waterfall.
You will soon. Dean promised. It just can’t be done alone. But that doesn’t stop you—every single time you climb into the Firebird—from dropping your brow to the wheel and taking a shaking breath. You could go now. You have a car, and legs, and a weapon. If angels or demons come for you, there’s no better place to lose control than a forest.
Then you think of a small marker in the dirt, and look down at the pastel blue on your fingers, and you can’t. It’s going to make it too real. She’s gone. All that’s left of her is that waterfall, and what’s on your fingertips.
You still keep thinking of her as alive. You know you do. You know Dean’s caught it, when you’ve said Jo likes or Jo hates or Jo is.
She isn’t.
You don’t know how to internalize that. And the moment you see the grave, you’re going to have to.
You should’ve visited the moment you got back. But you’ve been busy, and in pain, and you miss her and you can’t do it alone, you don’t want to do it alone, she can’t really be gone and you promised her you’d be okay but you can’t-
There’s a faint buzzing, and you freeze. The world had gone blurry, as you’d stared at your hands—you have perishables, you should really get moving—but when you dig your phone out from your pocket, it’s not the one that’s ringing. Your head shoots up, turning immediately towards the console, but save for the Gatorade you gotten yourself and your wallet, it’s empty.
The buzzing is still going. And the generic ring tone is screaming burner phone, but you don’t keep a burner phone. You have one phone, with five numbers—Bobby, Dean, Sam, Cas, Rufus—and you never just hand out your number. People don’t want to be able to reach you. You’re not someone anyone should just welcome, willingly, into their home, or seek for help. For every good deed you do, you’re ten times as sick and wrong.
Death. Staring at you. Telling you no, and the Sky glaring down at you, and a million teeth calling you a friend-
The buzzing stops for a second, then starts again. It’s in the car. You know it’s in the car. But it’s not your phone, so you don’t know where the fuck it’s coming from. And it takes pushing your hand between the seat cushions and getting on your knees to check under the backseat for you to think of the glove compartment. And there it is. A little black burner—just enough faded Gold to tell you it was Dean’s—buzzing over and over with a number, and no saved contact.
Dean gives his burner numbers to a lot of people. Surviving vics, in case they ever need help again. Other, more trusted hunters, for mutual aid on cases.
Girls. In bars. With pretty skirts and shirts that show of their cleavage, batting their lashes at him and giving him sweet smiles.
And you’ve played it over a million times in your head, almost on a mechanical loop. He doesn’t look for that anymore. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t look for him. Doesn’t mean he says no, when he’s asked. He ends up back in your bed, just sleeping, but he can’t be satisfied with that. Couldn’t ever be satisfied with you, making him worry and waking him up in the middle of the night to talk about fucking golf and milkshakes. Crying in his arms every other hunt, needing him more than he needs you, asking him to stay at your side and let you infect him, failing him all the time and running and sick-
The phone starts buzzing again.
So you brace yourself—you’ll get through it, no matter who it is, you’ll be fine, and Dean’s his own person, but you’ll be fucking fine—and pick up the phone.
“Hello?” A man’s voice—young, nervous, probably not a sex call—crackles through the speaker. “Is- Is this Dean Winchester?”
You pause. He knows who Dean is. But that’s not exactly a clean endorsement of who he is. “Who’s asking?”
“Oh- Uh-“ The man clears his throat. “Sorry, I, um- I’m just looking for someone, I think I got the wrong number-“
“You didn’t.” Your voice has to stay flat. Neutral. Not too much given away, but if he knows Dean by name, you have to know why.
“You- Don’t exactly sound like Dean.”
“This is his phone.”
“Oh. Um, is he okay-“
He better be. “Again, who’s asking.”
“Adam? Mulligan? I’m Sam and Dean’s brother.”
You still. Sam and Dean don’t have a third brother. Not that they’ve told you. They would’ve told you, that’s definitely something worth fucking telling you if it’s true-
Then a vague bell rings in the back of your head. Dean had told you. While you were in Europe. He’d called you at four in the morning—for him, not you—and said that it seemed like John got around, when he was on solo hunts. That he’d even had a son, barely a kid, and he’d claimed that John hadn’t known about him, but he’d still had Dean’s middle name as a first name. And John had taken him to baseball games, and taught him how to drive, and Dean had been angry but mostly with John—you’d bitten down your pride at that, not the right time to encourage Dean that John was a bag of shit—and most of all, at the end of it, Adam had been-
“You’re dead.” You snap, sitting up in your seat. Dean had said the real Adam was dead, had been dead the whole time. “Adam Mulligan got killed by a ghoul, who the fuck are you-“
“I’m Adam!” The man yelps, and you can hear the genuine fear in his voice. “I promise! And I know I died- I mean, I think I know. I can sort remember things that didn’t happen to me, and it’s- it’s really confusing. I woke up in a lot of dirt, and I found my phone with this number, and I remember Dean even though I never met him, so, um- Where is he?”
You frown, weighing your options in your head. He doesn’t sound like he’s lying, but most monsters are good actors. If you were in danger or confused, you’d also call Dean first, but you’ve known him for almost ten years, and you love him. Adam—if he’s real—has never even really met Dean. But he says he remembers both Sam and Dean, which reeks of angel interference, but if it is, they’re looking for the boys. Not you.
And angels can’t hurt you.
Adam clears his throat. “Hello?”
“Dean’s busy.” You keep your words careful. If this is angel interference, they’re not getting anything extra out of you.
You kind of hope it’s angel interference. You’d really like to kill Zachariah.
“Oh. Is he going to be, um, not busy soon?”
“Nope.” You lean back, resting your knees on the wheel. “But I can pass on a message.”
“Uh-“ Adam pauses. “Who are you?”
You give your first name, but not your last. If it is the angels, that won’t really matter either way.
“Oh- Okay. Are you like, Dean’s girlfriend?”
You’re going to jump off a cliff. “It’s complicated.”
“Alright.” Adam, thankfully, doesn’t push it. “Can you tell him I’m in Minnesota? And I’d like some help, please?”
You frown. “Where in Minnesota?”
“Windom? It’s my hometown, that’s where they met… not me.”
Windom isn’t that far. Barely an hour and a half for you, over a day for Dean. If it is a trap, it’s safer for you to take the bait first. If it isn’t—if Adam passes all the tests and there’s no angel brigade waiting—then it’s safer to keep Adam at Bobby’s.
You do have perishables. But they’ll last three hours.
“Text me the address.” You say, moving the call to speaker so you can watch for the message on the burner, and text Bobby know you’re taking care of something, you’ve got your knife, and you’ll be home for dinner.
“Oh, you can just tell Dean-“
“He’s on another coast. I’m in within two hours.”
“But-“ Adam lets out a long sigh, right as your phone buzzes with Bobby’s response.
Dont die.
You smile, type back never do, and open Dean’s contact.
“Adam, if you want help-“
“I know. I’m sending it now.” There’s another buzz on the burner, and Adam coughs. “Two hours?”
“More or less. Line the doors with salt and don’t answer for anyone but me.”
“How will I know it’s you?”
Fair enough. You give Adam a quick description of yourself, he mumbles and understanding, and you hang up the phone.
Bobby’s going to call this Hunter Fever. That you’re itching to do this because you’ve been cooped up, and now you’re actin’ like an idjit. But you’re not. If Adam is possessed, you’ll see it. If he’s just evil, he won’t be able to get the jump on you. One wrong movement and you’ll blast his soul right back out of his body. The highway will even get a lovely new garden as a result. And, you’re calling Dean. You’d sugar coated so Bobby wouldn’t worry, but you’re going to tell Dean, because you’re not being an idiot.
“Hey, Princess.” He picks up the phone after two rings, and you try not to sob in relief. He’s fine, you’d known that, but it’s still like a wave of thank fucking Christ whenever you hear his voice. “I meant to call you earlier, but this turned into a whole fuckin’ thing. Nothing we can’t deal with, but this whole town is full of crazies and this blonde chick who thinks she’s Jesus. Had to call in Cas, but we’ll still be home on time. What’s- Are you okay? You’re okay. Goddamnit, you better be okay-“
“I’m okay.” You smile into the air. It would be nice to be able to grab his face between your hands and kiss his nose, but even if he was here, that would be against the rules. “Your brother called.”
There’s a long, static pause. “Sweetheart, I’ve been with Sammy all day-“
“Wrong brother, De.” You sigh, and push out the words as fast as you can. “Adam. He’s alive. In Minnesota. He called the burner phone you left in my car, and I’m close, so I’m going to pick him up and bring him to Bobby’s. You should get home soon though. After the case.”
There’s another pause, and then- “The fuck you’re going to Minnesota alone, it could be a goddamn trap-“
“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I’ve got both knives, and I’m already on I-90.”
“Then get the hell off it-“
“Dean. I’m going. You can’t stop me.”
“I can send Cas-
“You think Cas can stop me?”
“Goddamnit-“ Dean snaps your name, a tension in his voice that you haven’t heard in a long time. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t get yourself goddamn killed without me there to help-“
“I can hunt perfectly fucking fine on my own, Winchester.”
“I know that, but-“
“I’m going because you’re not here.” Your voice is raising slightly, and you glare ahead at the road. “They can hurt you, they can’t hurt me. I’ll be fine.”
“What if you’re not.” Dean hisses, and whatever background noise was on when he picked up is gone. He must have moved to fight in private. “You- You can’t get fucking hurt, Princess-“
“I know I can’t.” You say coolly. “That’s the point.”
He huffs out a dry laugh. “That’s not what I meant and you fuckin’ know it-“
“Dean.” Your voice is harsher than you mean it, and he falls silent. “We’ve done this before. I am perfectly fine on my own-“
“But you shouldn’t have to be.”
You swallow, a hot and heavy lump forming in your throat. You don’t want to fight. Not really. Not now, when you miss him and love him and everything hurts just as much as always.
Not ever.
“Sorry.” Dean mutters. “Didn’t mean to shout, you’re just- Son of a bitch, you need to be here Princess. With me. And I can’t- If you-“
“I know.” You mumble, moving one hand off the wheel to rub at your wrists. Sick. Only making things harder. “I’ll be careful, De. I promise.”
Dean sighs. “I know you will, sweetheart. Just- If you need me, pray to Cas and he’ll zap me over-“
“I know.”
He grunts, and it doesn’t sound like he’s convinced. “Call me when you’ve got him, or I’m leaving these dumbasses to govern themselves.”
“Ooo, a revolution. You’re a kind king, Mr. Winchester. The people love your taxing system and patronage of the arts.”
“Nerd.” Dean mutters, but there’s a softness to his voice that makes you feel molten. “Pinky promise you’ll call.”
“Pinky promise. See you soon.”
Love you.
You don’t say it. You’re not allowed to say it.
But you can think it, and hope he feels it. Hope that, all the way across the country, Dean knows that you’re going to be fine, because you have to be. You always get through it. You always go back to him. The address Adam gave you might look suspiciously like a church—god fucking damnit, it’s almost certainly a trap—but you’ll get back to Dean.
You always do.
Adam’s a scrawny kid, sitting awkwardly on the dais. He’s a sort of tangerine orange color, starting in his stomach and burning up like fire in a chimney. He might be a little taller than Dean, but he’s built more like Sam. Hair a little darker than Dean’s, eyes bluer than Sam’s, and it’s not fair to already be comparing him to them, but otherwise you’ll just be seeing John. John’s nose, and mouth, and eyes. The features of the man that tried to kill you. That should have killed you. That kept you away from Dean. And they’re the same nose and mouth and eyes Dean has, but you love Dean. On him, they’re the best features in the world.
So it’s for Adam’s sake that you look at him and think Dean’s mouth. Sam’s jaw. Otherwise the Silver might start to flare.
You’re going to have it enough trouble keeping it down as it is.
Because standing at the dais is an angel. Broader than Cas, a little less electric, his rainbows running with an ugly, muted brown.
Zachariah.
You sigh, stopping at the front of the pews and crossing your arms over your chest. “I fucking knew it.”
Zachariah grins at you, ugly and shark like, and it’s only for Adam’s sake that you don’t let the Silver burst up and rip everything apart.
He says your name, clapping his hands together with a mockingly cheerful tone. “You are infuriating, you know that? Think that you always know best, even when you’re walking into my trap-“
“Pretty shit trap.” You mutter. “I don’t think you were aiming for me, douche-bucket.”
Zachariah scowls. “Douche-bucket. I’m assuming that’s from our lovely Dean, right? His little… turn of phrase.”
You don’t answer—Zachariah can wait—and your attention flicks to Adam. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Adam whispers, his eyes wide on yours. “I just wanted to see my mom, I didn’t mean to- I don’t know. I’m not sure what’s happening.”
Zachariah scoffs. “Well, don’t try to figure it out. This is beyond your understanding, kid-“
“Oh, shut up.” You snap, and Zachariah’s eyes narrow.
“You have a nice voice.” Adam cuts in before Zachariah can speak, and you blink at him. “And- You’re- I like your hair.”
“Uh, thanks.” You frown. “You working with employee of the month?” You jerk your head to Zachariah, and the angel’s eyes narrow.
“Don’t answer that,” he orders, and Adam just keeps gaping at you. “And you,” he hisses your name, and you fix time with a bored stare. “You are- Such a fucking brat-“
“Sorry. Should’ve been nicer to Dean, he might have given you his real number, and you wouldn’t be going back empty-handed.”
Zachariah’s jaw twitches, and he takes a deep, heaving breath. “For your information, I will not being going anywhere empty handed. Had I hoped for Sam and Dean? Yes. But honestly,” the smirk creeps back onto his face, and a chill runs deeper than your bones. “You’re better. Bigger game, harder to catch. Boss will be pleased. I might even get a promotion. And, here’s the best part.” He raises his fingers, ready to snap. “This will be way more effective.”
He snaps, and you almost stumble forward.
Ellen.
Battered and dazed, a wear in her dark green, but Ellen-
You must call out to her and not hear it, because Zachariah tsks, and holds a finger to his lips.
“I wouldn’t talk to her right now. She’s a little… confused.”
Your jaw clenches, the Silver starting to rise, and while Zachariah’s smile doesn’t falter, his brown does do an odd stutter. Like a short-circuit or fritz in a power line.
“Now,” Zachariah hums, taking a slightly step back and moving Ellen in front of him. Fucking pussy. “Here’s the deal I was going to offer Dean. Adam walks, Ellen walks, even little Sammy walks, and all he has to do is say yes. But I think-“ He pauses, frowning slightly. “He’ll want to talk to you. Sam and Dean… They’d be a problem-“
“They’re not coming.” You snap, grabbing the Blade out of your jacket. The Silver has to remain down, for Adam and Ellen. You can still cause a lot of fucking damage. “It’s just you and me-“
“We both know that’s not true.” Zachariah scoffs. “Dean at least is going to be trying to get to you, and Sam will help him. I can’t track them, but I can tip off some very angry hunters where they’re going- Yeah, it’ll be easier like this.”
Your eyes widen as Zachariah raises his hand again, the Silver turning and blistering right under your skin. “Like-“
The word is barely out of your mouth when Zachariah snaps his fingers, and the Silver rips out.
It crashed up with less warning than usual.
It’s still a second too later.
You’re everything. More than everything. Parts of you are things you don’t have names for, and a lot of you is light, but just as much is darkness. And you’re made of lava somewhere very dark and hot and lonely, and the Earth is spinning around you but you’re also every smallest bit of grass that feels so big in comparison to the bugs, and you’re the vastness of the water in the ocean, but also the vastness of every space between the stars, and neither of them feel bigger than the other.
Mostly, you’re a song being played in an old car—old to other cars, young to the pavement it’s driving on and the trees it’s passing, barely an infant to the sky over its head—and the hands gripping a wheel so tight they’re going to strangle it.
You love those hands. It would be nice to hold them. They’re Golden.
But you’re not you anymore. And you’re following them all the way down the roads, time somehow too slow and too fast all at once. You can see the dusty old church, and there are two hunters loading shotguns, and the shells are building themselves up to burst through a skull. The Gold is driving right to the church, and you need to stop it, but you’re too much and you don’t know how to control it all.
Then, as the Gold walks through the doors of the church, the Purple at his side, it all falls back down. You’re you again, and you can feeling the Spiderweb burning, but it’s not offline. More… confused. Straining a little more powerfully through your chest as you crash into yourself.
And you’re in the most beautiful garden you’ve ever seen.
Water that looks a little more like crystal, sunshine weaving through heavy leaves over your head, angled perfectly to spark at rainbow in every bit of mist. The flowers are blooming with heart and star-like patterns, made of colors you’ve never even seen. A familiar iridescent apple is hanging over your head, growing from a single, weeping tree that seems to be bleeding silver sap. You turn slowly—you’re not sure where you are, but it’s not Minnesota—and stop when your eyes land on an angel.
There’s no wrath in him. Not like the other angels you’ve seen. His grace runs with green—a little lighter than Ellen, a lot softer than Bobby—and he’s big. Less electric, and more rooted. Wings twisted like branches, and eyes like knots on a tree trunk.
He says your name slowly. Your Enochian name. And when you stand a little taller, he gives you a kind smile.
“You can relax. I can’t do you any harm.”
You swallow. “Can’t?”
“None of us can. Even the Angels that believe we’ve truly been left to ourselves…” He chuckles, shaking his head. “They are not foolish enough to try and touch you.”
“Because I’m the Magdalene.” You say carefully, and the angel shrugs.
“Yes, but not quite.”
They must train angels to only speak like bridge trolls. “I don’t know what that means.”
“You are the Bride.” He says simply, and the Silver flares, running right to the tips of your fingers. “Being the Magdalene is, according to him, more of a cruel trick that was played, long ago. He’s told me he thinks you didn’t need the boost.”
“The- What?”
“I’m not sure,” he shrugs. “I don’t get to know everything. Only what I’ve been told.”
You open and close your mouth a few times, and the angel lets out another soft laugh.
“I’m sorry, I’ve just heard so much about you. I forgot you wouldn’t know me. Joshua.” He extends his hands—he’s not in a vessel, it’s all hands—and gives you another smile. “I’m the gardener.”
“Oh.” You say a little stupidly, giving his hand a tight shake and looking around once more. Strange flowers. Everything too perfect, with no actual environmental logic to the botany. You should’ve gotten it sooner. “And I’m in the… Gardens. Of Heaven?”
Joshua hums, and gives you an approving nod. “He did say you were smart.”
You don’t really want to know the answer. You’re still going to ask. “He?”
“God. He likes to…” Joshua pauses, watching you carefully. “Talk to me.”
“And he’s- Told you about me?”
Joshua frowns at you, tilting his head. “Of course he has. He’s been lonely for a long while, and- Well. From what I understand, he’s very happy you’re finally here.”
“Did he…” Deep breath. Too much to deal with, and you don’t feel dead, but you’ve also never been dead before. “Send me here?”
“No,” Joshua sighs. “I believe that was Zachariah. He can’t kill you, so you were sent to me.” He pauses. “I would be on your way, before he comes looking. He’s always been a bitter fuck.”
Your lips twitch in surprise, and you’d very much like more of Joshua’s opinions on the angels, but-
“Dean.” Your voice is barely a breath, and your arms wrap tight around your stomach. Like you’re trying to keep the Spiderweb trapped in your body. “I- He’s-“
“Dean Winchester is dead.” Joshua says softly, his words moving a little faster as the Silver starts to riot and tear back up. “But he is fine. From what I understand, two angry hunters went after Sam with a little angelic help, and he was… collateral. But God does not wish for him to remain here.”
“Here?” You whisper, squeezing yourself until you’re not sure you’re breathing. “In- Heaven?”
Joshua nods, and you let out a slow, shaking breath. The map. The stupid fucking map Gabriel took away from you, that you’d had about half memorized. You’re in the garden. That means-
Joshua clears his throat. “You want to find him.”
Of course you want to find him. All there ever is to do is find Dean. “Yeah. Where’s, um-“ You pause. Heaven’s made like a sphere. The Gardens were at the center, on the map. All roads in, with the only way out—according to a note that had been in the margins—growing in the roots of God, because the place was designed like the world’s worst, most magical escape room that you could never actually escape. Problems for later. “Where’s the tree?”
“The tree?” Joshua gives you another amused look, and points behind you. “Be careful. It’s old.”
“All of this is old,” you mutter, turning to frown at the bleeding-silver apple tree. “Do I just climb it?”
“Usually one must make an offering, if you’re not accompanied by myself. But I think it will make an exception for you. Just touch it.”
“Cool.” You mumble, and Joshua clears his throat.
“I would be careful. Once you get to the rest of Heaven, it will be different for you.” You turn back to him with a frown, and he pushes on, his voice still gentle. “For most humans, it is their greatest memories from life. But you are not dead, or human.”
“I’ve heard.” You sigh, raising your hand up carefully. Dean. You need to go to Dean. “Do you, um- Want to come with me?”
It’s an awkward question, and Joshua just shakes his head with a soft smile. “I wish I could. But I like my plants, and they like me. I am… Hopeful for you, though. He seems to think you tend to be different, than he wants you. But you are bright. Good.”
You’re not good. You know, better than anyone, that you are far from good. You still give Joshua a small smile and last thanks before you let the Spiderweb start to light up, and you press your palm to the bark of the tree.
Dean. You want Dean.
And it’s all a blur, and you’re everything once more, but you can see Gold. Leaning on the doorway of a motel room, rubbing his neck and saying low words you can’t quite make out. Moving a little forward to be closer to whoever he’s looking at, then grinning like he’s won the lottery when they step to the side, and he can shuffle into their room. He’s looking at the floor and She—it’s a She, you can see shiny hair and hear a musical voice, and you want to hate Her but he looks so happy, and you can’t hate anyone that makes him happy—places a hand on his chest to shoves him onto the bed, and you- This feels like something you should know, and you’re so close-
Something that’s white and wrathful and bright grabs you before everything can come into focus. Yanking you back with so much force as a hollow scream for Dean breaks from your throat, and the Gold flares, but then it’s gone.
Your eyes shoot open, and you’re not in a motel room.
You’re in a saloon. A big, wide saloon with fancy trim and a creaking floors, low music playing from a scratched-up record player. There’s sunlight that makes the dust seem like it’s swirling in the air. You’re wearing a flowing dress with your knife strapped to your upper thigh, but there’s no monsters here. Nothing but old, dusty bottles on shelves, the music that you somehow know buy heart and you’re humming to yourself in perfect time, and-
“Hey, Princess.” A hand slide to hold your waist, and the moment you turn, he’s there.
Dean’s grinning down at you, light sparkling in his eyes. He’s wearing a cowboy hat, dressed completely like a character in one of his old movies that he loves to make you watch. And he’s so close, and he smells like grass and spice, but not cinnamon.
And he’s not Golden.
Heaven will be different for you.
This isn’t your Dean.
It’s an imitation of him, from a fantasy. From the back of your head and rawest little bit of your heart that truly believes—in another world, where everything was less complicated—you could have Dean.
And you do. In this world. Because before you can say a single word he’s leaning down and kissing you. Slow and soft, like he’s done it a million times before, and he plans to do it a million more. His free hand grabs your chin and tips it back slightly, his low chuckle vibrates in your chest as you moan and twist to fully wrap your arms around his shoulders.
“Was gonna asked if you missed me.” He mutters, grinning against your lips. “Think I can figure it out myself, though.”
You giggle, shaking your head and dropping your brow to his chest, keeping your eyes squeezed shut. Just for a second, if this is heaven, if this is all you ever get, you want to have it. “I did. Always do, De.”
“Always, huh.” His arms wrap fully around you, his lips brushing a kiss on your brow. “That’s a big promise, baby.”
Baby. I love you, baby.
“It is,” you whisper, your fingers curling on his shirt. “Don’t want to make it to anyone else.”
The world rumbles. Whatever stopped you from finding Dean—the real Dean—isn’t happy with you. And you think you know who. He might have been watch you your whole life.
You’re not quite ready to think about it yet.
“I’m sorry.” You whisper to Cowboy-Dean, even though he won’t understand what you’re talking about. “I- I’m really fucking sorry, for all of it. For making you worry and drive and die for me, and making you wait and getting mad and being stupid and reckless and-“ You take a shuttering breath, holding him a little tighter. He might not be Golden, but he’s built like Real-Dean is. All the same muscle and softness. It’s close enough. “I- I’m sorry-“
Cowboy-Dean mutters your name, tipping your head back with an open, adoring look on his face, his thumb running slowly down the bridge of your nose.
“I’m sorry,” you gasp out, grabbing his hands to keep them on your face. “Dean, I- I’m- I’m so sorry-“
“I know you are.” He mutters, swiping the tears away from your cheeks. “But I don’t mind doing that, you know. Taking care of you. You do the same for me, and I love you, Princess. All the way down.”
I love you. You know I love you, baby.
You let out a long, slow breath, and lean fully back into his arms. You’re not quite sure how to do this, but the Silver isn’t suffocating here. In Heaven, it’s almost back to how it had been before you lost Jo. Humming and bright, right under the surface, ready to be called forward at your will, as you need it.
And you need to find Dean.
So you focus, and let the Silver bleed out, and already different from the tree. You’re more in control. You’re everything, and that includes something whatever glowing, misting fabric is weaving this whole world together. You can do this.
You squeeze Cowboy-Dean three times, before he’s gone. If this is every bit of your heaven, you’re not going to be able to take it.
And it isn’t.
Not quite.
You miss your first shot. Your eyes open, and the Silver has just given you another fantasy. You sitting in the back room of that church in Chicago, a younger looking Dean laughing with you as he steals the Body of Christ bread, covers it in Nutella and something fluffy and white, and hands it to you with a wide, proud grin.
“Sammy found this stuff while we were in Virginia.” He explains. “Supposed to taste like marshmallows. Thought you’d like it.”
“Aw, Deano.” You smile, taking a large bite, and it’s not real but it tastes so good. “You think of me?”
“All the time, Princess. You, uh- You think of me?”
You nod, resting your head on his shoulder. “All the time.”
This one has to go, too. But you miss again. And again. And again. A lot of the times are just you and Dean, but more of them have a cast of side characters. Sam groans as you and Dean appear in his doorway—the fantasy seeming to be Dean didn’t leave, that first time, and everything was easy—and grumbles about how a week’s notice would’ve been nice. Bobby glares at a pale Dean across a table, and you roll your eyes because you know he’s not going to shoot Dean. He likes Dean. He just doesn’t like, in this fantasy, that you’ve been running around with John’s boy behind everyone’s back. And you don’t have any powers, and you can’t see the Sky, and you’re just Bobby’s daughter. Both of them are there in your treasure hunting fantasy, and when you pull that one apart and push it back together you’re in-
The Roadhouse.
Sitting at the bar.
Across from Jo.
“You know, I never should have encouraged y’all.” She wrinkles her nose. “If I walk in on y’all suckin’ face one more time, I’m gonna shoot myself.”
You swallow, barely able to speak over the lump in your throat. “Jo?”
“Yeah?”
“I- I’m sorry.”
“For what, being gross? I ain’t mad about it for you, but now that Dean’s not holdin’ back I can see his boner all the fuckin’ time-“
“For not saving you.” You cut her off with a whisper. “I- I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Jo just gives you a strange look and shakes her head. “Did you sleep last night? I’m fine.”
You can’t speak. You need to say something, to try and grab her even though she isn’t real, and bring her back. To hug her and sob a million more apologies. To do anything but stare at her and let a million words die in your throat about how you don’t know what to do. This is all so hard, and you just need a friend, someone to tell about the Men of God and Lucifer and Death and Crowley, and you have Cas for some of it but you want Jo-
The Silver is moving too fast. The pain pressing on your chest—made of Jo, she’s gone but she’s here, and you failed her and she doesn’t even know—is racking through your whole body, and you don’t want to go, you can’t go but you don’t know how to control it. It hurts and you’re sick and you miss her, it’s beating out of your chest and you have to say something, but the words keep turning to sobs in your throat. You should’ve done more. Been better. You fucking failed and what goddamn use are you if you’re so powerful but you can’t save Jo-
She’s gone before you can stop it. You’re everything again, but it feels wild. Furious. It all hurts—it always hurts, but now you can feel it like you’re the wound and the infection and the scar and the venom—and everything reforms differently. Faster.
Brighter.
This isn’t one of your fantasies or dreams. You’re back in what you’d been wearing in the church, and when you press your hand to your jacket, your knife and the Blade are still there. The room itself is a lot. There’s fire dancing in the air and grass under your feet, waterfalls making up the walls and a throne. A large, pure white throne made of light, high up on a dais of flowers and diamonds and marble. And when you climb up to stand before it, it glows brighter.
And there is it. On one arm of the chair, shifting in the light without pain. Like it was designed to be there. Has always been there.
Your name is written places in Heaven.
On God’s throne.
“Wow.” A voice says from off to the side. “I gotta hand it to you, this is smart one. Nobody’s been here in a long time.”
You turn, and standing a few steps down on the dais is the Blue. Still blond and a little short, still grinning at you with open amusement, rocking back and forth on his feet as he waits for you to respond.
“Gabriel,” you whisper, and his grin widens.
“Give the lady a cigar! She put it together! I doubt it was all by yourself, Dean and Sammy probably snitched, but I’m proud of you for telling them about our little rendezvous” He takes another step up, but still doesn’t move to the dais. “But, I do have to say, you didn’t listen to me at all.”
You scowl, your hands moving to your jacket on instinct, and Gabriel’s eyes widen, his hands raising up in surrender.
“Hey, I’m just here to talk, no need to get stabby-“
“You stole my phone, and my notes.” You snap, grabbing the Blade. It looks sort for bioluminescent. Too many problems. “You stole my books.”
“I- I did to that. But, I was trying to help you, this isn’t your fight unless you make it your fight!”
“It is my fight-“
“Right, cause of your family.” Gabriel sighs. “You know, you are a stubborn little one. Sort of a spitfire. I get what they’re seeing in you-“
“Uh huh.” You’re a little sick of being called little, or hearing how people want you. You’re bigger than the fucking universe. And you’ve never cared how people want you, because you just want Dean. “Give me one good reason not to stab you.”
“My charming personality?”
Your eyes narrow, and Gabriel winces.
“Fine, you’re mad at me. I get that. But I looked at your notes! It’s some pretty impressive stuff, and-“ Gabriel’s hands go higher as you take a step forward. “I was wrong! I was super fucking wrong! You’ve been tearing through the apocalypse like it’s a hacked video game, sweetheart, this is great. We’ll be home in time for dessert, if you keep this up.”
He sounds genuine, but you don’t trust it. So you stop moving, but keep the Blade in your hand. “What do you want, Gabriel. Aren’t you supposed to be hiding from Heaven.”
“That’s true, I am, but this,” he gestures around the room. “Doesn’t count. This is heaven back when Daddy was hands on. I didn’t even know the door was still open anymore, but I shoulda figured you’d shove your way in. Warning signs don’t really seem to be effective on you.”
You frown. “There’s no warning sign-“
“This whole place is a warning sign. Barbed wire, moat of crocodiles, whole shebang. But you just walked right in, so I followed. All I want is to talk, and this is the best place to do it.”
“To talk.” You echo back slowly. “Are you going to knock me out again?”
Gabriel rolls his eyes. “You know, you really should let that go-“ You take another step forward, and his words stutter. “Understandable if you don’t, though. Fair. If it helps, what I pulled was a one-time, Earth specific trick. Won’t work on you up here.” He eyes you wearily. “And I really am here to help. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick an angel blade in my eye.”
You pause. Help. You don’t need help, but you also aren’t getting anywhere close to finding Dean. And, somehow, you seem to have the upper hand here. Over an archangel, in fucking heaven. If he lies, or tries to knock you out again, you’ve got the Blade. You’ll just stab him. “Help how.”
“You’re not gonna,” Gabriel makes a jerking movement with his hand, nodding to the Blade, and you shrug.
“Not if you’re really here to help.”
“Alrighty, I can work with that. Down to business.” Gabriel claps his hands together, taking a cautious step up, but still not all the way to the dais. “Like I said, looked at your notes. Men of God, soul studies, Magdalenes, translations. You really are a smart cookie. I think you could put this together by yourself, if you got the little push-“
“Gabriel.” You hiss, and he sighs.
“It’s right under your nose, sweetheart. Chasing Death and Pestilence, chopping off good ol’ Famine’s finger. My brothers aren’t going to be killed by your two bumbling Americana poster boys, and they ain’t dumb enough to not keep precautions against you. But they can be trapped. Put in time out. Shit, Luci got sent to the corner for thousands of years.”
“The-“ You frown, your grip tightening on the Blade. “What.”
“Think about it,” Gabriel says your name in Enochian, grinning up at you. “He got out, Mikey’s gotta kill him, that’s the whole thing. Dad’s not going to step in, he likes watching us beat each other up. Even tapes it to sell. But, he also like his loopholes. Fail safes. Little puzzles to keep us all busy while he fucked around. You think he’d just destroy the cage after it was open?” You open your mouth, and he shakes his head, raising a hand. “You’re smarter than that.”
You pull your lip between your teeth, biting until it stings. “There’s a back door.” You mutter, watching Gabriel carefully. “Another way to open it, and send someone in.”
“Good girl,” Gabriel laughs, giving you a mock applause. “Of course, you’re gonna have to get Lucifer into the cage. I’d wish you good luck with that, but I don’t think you’ll need it. You’ve always liked finding other ways.”
Deep breath. He’s not taunting you—no more than seems usual—and that is helpful. But- “Why are you helping now. You wanted to stay out of it, Sam and Dean-“
“Sam and Dean,” Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Are dramatic, self-righteous, annoyingly convincing little asshats. I probably would’ve flipped for them eventually, they’ve got this kinda street dog charm that coulda won me over. But this? It was mostly from watching our lovely Castiel.” He gives you a wide grin. “You know, he doesn’t understand what you are, not really, but he’s following you all the same, rather than some ancient orders from a deadbeat Dad. And I think he’s onto something. I think you deserve a choice, and that’s not gonna happen if this train keeps rolling. Actually, I’m not sure if it’ll happen at all, but Mikey and Luci ain’t gonna help. Plus, I love love. And you,” He lets out a low wolf whistle. “Are way too sexy for my dad.”
The chill rolls through your bones again, and the Silver is burning. Rolling and turning like a storm, not trying to burst out, but strained. Distressed. You don’t even know how to say anything, how to be anything but everything, and you heard Gabriel’s words, but you didn’t really hear them, and you can’t-
“Easy girl.” Gabriel says, raising his hands again. “I’d like to go back underground without being erased.”
You frown. “Back-“
“There’s no way I’m sticking around for the finale. Not my scene. You give me a call, I’ll answer, but only you. Don’t go writing my number on bathroom stalls. And hot tip, don’t be afraid to ask for some help. Not my help, obviously, but some help.”
“I don’t-“
“Also, you’re doing this all wrong.” Gabriel nods around the room. “You think about who you want, Heaven’s gonna want to please you. Try thinking about where they’d be. Their happy memories. Once you get that, you can go wherever you want, babygirl. World’s your oyster.” Gabriel shoots you a wink. “Good luck. Remember, call me.”
You open your mouth—to scream, to protest, to demand more, he can’t just say all that and fuck off—but nothing comes out, and Gabriel vanishes, leaving you alone once more.
The steps are shocking soft, like sitting on a blanket, grass in the summer. You draw your knees up to your chest, dropping your brow with a low, deep breath. The Silver is still illuminated in your body, buzzing right under your skin and—for maybe the first time in your life—the pain is numbed. Not gone, but numbed. Like it’s being drowned in the Silver, or burned away by the light all around you. This feels like a good time to cry. To let out the guttural howl that’s been building in your throat. You don’t know what to do. You lost Jo, again. And God.
You don’t want to think about that one. Not right now. And it might be why the scream doesn’t come, why the pain remains something a little too far for you to really feel. It’s all too much, just on the right side of overwhelming to sear you together by force.
You’ll get through this. You’ll get back to Dean. You always do, and then you’ll fall apart. After you save Ellen and Adam, after you find Sam and Dean—and maybe shove them both for dying like idiots—you’ll fall apart about it all.
Don’t be afraid to ask for some help.
You tip your head up, and squeeze your eyes shut. “Dear Castiel, who art it,” you pause. This is so fucking stupid. “Wallingford, Connecticut. Get over here, please.”
There’s a rustle, and when you open your eyes Cas is standing over you, frowning around the room. “Where did you bring me?”
“Working theory?” You say, pushing to your feet. “God’s old throne room.”
“How did you-“
“Don’t know. Sam and Dean-“
“Are dead.” Cas sighs, and it’s good to know he has the same feelings about it. Dumbasses. “I’ve been guiding them, but they get sidetracked rather easily. And much of my guidance had to come from Earth, as my powers are-“ Cas glances down at his hands, frowning slightly. “Were, diminished. But I am not feeling any weakness now.”
“That might be me,” you mutter. “I need your help, and this place seems to like me.”
“Ah.” Cas’ frown deepens, but he doesn’t push it. “I’ll be able help you to Sam and Dean, if we remain together-“
“It’s not just Sam and Dean.” You tuck the Blade back in your jacket, looking around the room one last time. Your gaze falls back on your name, written on the throne, and you take a deep breath. Heaven wants to please you. “Zachariah said it would be better like this. That the boss wants to talk to me.”
Cas frowns. “Michael?”
“Probably, yeah. He had Ellen and Adam, I think he just killed them to stash them here. We’re going to have to get to them one at a time-“
“Sam and Dean’s heavens have merged. We will be able to retrieve them together.”
“Oh. Good.” You frown at the air, rubbing at the scar on your palm. “I think if we can work out just one of everyone’s happiest memories, I’ll be able to move to their heavens, and you can just hop around, so it’ll be best if we split up. We can meet up at Sam and Dean, you grab Adam, I’ll get Ellen and Jo-“
“Jo?” Cas cuts you off with a frown, and you nod.
“If we’re bringing people back, I can get Jo, and-“
Cas says your name too gently, and your nails dig into your skin. Whatever he’s about to say, you really don’t want to hear it. “I do not believe Jo Harvelle is here.” His words come a little quicker, and it might be because all the fire in the room had burned a little brighter, right as the Silver started to wail in your body. “She is not in hell, either. But she’s… blocked.”
You shake your head, clenching your teeth. “I’ll get through the block, Cas-“
“We do not have the time.” His voice is firm, and he’s holding your glare. “Michael may be hunting you, and Zachariah is after Sam and Dean. You are powerful here, but you’re unfamiliar with the systems and roads of Heaven-“
“I’ll be fine-“
“It is not you I am worried about.”
Sam and Dean and Ellen and Adam. “But whatever’s blocking Jo-“
“Is strong. You will likely be able to break through it, but it will cost us time. Time we do not have.” Cas sighs. “You called for my help. I am offering that, and advice. I will not be able to stop you, if you choose to aim for Jo instead of the others. But a soul is needed to bring someone back. And we know where everyone else is stored.”
You fucking hate this. This whole day has been shit. Everyone’s giving you pieces of a puzzle you don’t really want to solve anymore—not as the picture comes together, and it’s more and worst then you’d dared to think about—and your groceries are probably fucked, and you miss Dean, and Bobby’s going to kill you when you get home, and you’re failing Jo again, and Adam and Ellen-
Ellen. You can’t fail Jo and Ellen, again. You’ve already razed Jo just by being near her. You can’t allow the same to happen, again, without ever really apologizing to either of them.
“Fine.” You mutter, rolling your neck and glaring at the ceiling. “You can get Adam?”
Cas nods, and there’s unmistakable relief washing all over his face. “Yes. I will meet you with Sam and Dean.”
You hum in acknowledgment. “Cas?”
He frowns at you, and you give him a small, sad smile.
“Don’t die.”
“I will do my best.” Cas gives you an awkward nod in return. “Good luck. I will see you in, hopefully, about fifteen minutes.”
There’s a whoosh, and then he’s gone. And you can do this. Heaven wants to please you—not the time to think about why, or what the fuck that means—and you know what you need to do now. Ellen’s happy memories.
All you can think of is Jo. And it’s splitting open a strong ache in your chest, making your fingers curl to try and protect her blue from the sights of Heaven. But Jo is the same to you that she is to Ellen. Family. And Ellen had told you a few stories, on nights you’d stayed at the roadhouse to hang out with Jo. She’d made you a rootbeer float and talked about how Jo got to ride a horse once, and it was the happiest Ellen had seen her since her dad died.
The Silver starts to build outwards, and you can see it. Covered in an odd, shimmering veil, but there. Ellen with a beer in her hand, watching a blonde girl ride a horse that’s ten times her size. Both of them are smiling, and there’s a soft breeze that’s offsetting the flat heat of the summer.
You turn back once, as the Silver started to leak out around you, and the image become clearer. Just to check that it was real. That your name is really right there, written on what can old be the throne of God.
And it is.
Then it’s gone, and you’re caught in what feels like a soft tide for only a second, before you fall onto soft grass.
The sun is blinding for a second, and you have to squint to look around you. Baby Jo has wandered deeper into the field, and for a second you want to chase her down and bring her with you too. And you know it wouldn’t work—just like in the Roadhouse, that’s not your Jo, just an echo of her—but that doesn’t stop the ache from cleaving your ribs apart. You can hear her laughter on the wind, and it’s a sound you don’t think you’re ever going to hear again.
That almost shatters you. You can’t afford to stop or slow down right now, but you’re never going to laugh with Jo again-
A hand brushes hair away from your face, and you turn to see Ellen frowning at you, your name soft on her tongue. “What are you doing here, honey?”
You swallow, your voice barely a rasp. “I- I’m here for you.”
“For me?” Ellen frowns. “I’m busy, I’m takin’ Jo to get ice cream after this. You can come with us, but you look…” She pauses, tracing her hand back over your face with a frown, and you swallow down a weak sob. “Tired. What happened?”
It would be so nice if you could just not tell her. If you could leave her here, happy, forever. But you don’t trust Zachariah to let her stay in peace. And you can’t shake the sight of her in the church. Pale and bruised, swaying slightly and unsure of what was around her. Broken.
You won’t fail twice. You won’t.
“You’re dead.” You whisper. “Zachariah found you, and hurt you. I- I don’t know why- But I didn’t stop him and I’m sorry-“
A weak, strangled sound breaks through your throat, the world going a little blurry, and Ellen pulls you into her arms. You don’t deserve to hug her back, you’re the one who got her hurt and killed. But you’re tired, and the physical pain is numb, but the ache is bigger than you know how to handle. So you bury your face in her shoulder and let the tears fall.
“It’s okay,” Ellen hums your name, rubbing your back, and you shake your head. Nothing’s okay, it’s all too much, and too complicated, and you don’t know what to do- “I guess I shoulda known I was dead. Jo ain’t been this young in a while.”
Another broken sob shakes your body, and you don’t know if Ellen knows that Jo’s- That you- That-
“And I remember the church.” Ellen sighs. “Remember all of it, now that you’re sayin’ it.”
You swallow and lean back, blinking away the tears from your eyes. “I- I’m sorry.”
Ellen frowns. “Bout what?”
“Jo.” Your voice is barely a breath. You’re not even sure how you’re speaking at all, with the feeling of iron in your lungs and ash in your throat. “I- I tried to save her. I promise, but I couldn’t, and I shouldn’t have done the plan at all but I- I’m sorry-“
Another hollow noise breaks out and Ellen shakes her head, brushing the hair from your face. “I don’t blame you. Don’t think she’d ever blame you either. I was always happy you two found each other, even though I wasn’t a fan of her huntin’… I just wanted her to be happy. And you were the only real friend she had. I know you loved her like a sister, honey, and I don’t doubt you tried to save her.”
“But- You vanished-“
“Cause I was furious at everything that hurt her. Not you.”
“But I-“
“Dean told me you stayed with her to the end.” Ellen whispers, giving you a sad smile. “That you didn’t want to leave her at all. She wasn’t alone. And you killed the angel that killed her. Better than I could’ve done.”
You shake your head, your voice bitter. “Just one of them. Other one got away.”
Ellen sighs. “It was that bald asshole that grabbed me, wasn’t it. Zachariah?” You nod, and she scowls. “He’s seemed like a shitbag. You gonna kill him too?”
“I’d like to.” You mutter, sniffing up the last of the tears. She doesn’t blame you. Even if she should, she doesn’t, and you can do this. Focus. Get her out. You won’t fail again. “But he’s going to be looking for me, he-“
“Wants you to talk to the boss.” Ellen frowns. “God?”
“Michael. I’ll explain more later, but we have to go. Cas is meeting us at Sam and Dean-“
“Sam and Dean?” Ellen’s brows raise in surprise. “How’d they end up here?”
“Angry hunters and another trap. Cas will be able to resurrect you all, I think I jumpstarted him or something. I might be-“ You pause. If you’re this powerful, if Heaven wants to please you, you might be able to pull off the angel’s back from the dead trick too. You’re trying to feel out the Silver. It still doesn’t hurt the same, and it’s not dormant, but-
You don’t want to risk it. You might be able to pull off a resurrection, but you don’t know how. And if you fuck it up, you might infect one of them. Might make everything worse. It will have to be Cas.
Ellen says your name gently. “You okay-“
“I’m fine.” You reach out your hand, holding Ellen’s gaze. “Ready?”
She nods, but glances over your shoulder. “What about Jo? I know that ain’t her, but- If Castiel is bringin’ people back-“
“He needs the souls.” You mumble. And Jo’s is fucking blocked. “I’m sorry.”
Ellen’s throat bobs, and she lets out a long, slow breath. “Alright.” Her hand slides into yours, and you really don’t fucking deserve this. The trust that you’re going to do this right, and not get someone hurt. “This gonna feel weird?”
“Um, no?”
“C’mon.” Ellen says your name with a small smile. “Bobby raised you to lie better than that.”
“No.” You keep your tone dry, and Ellen chuckles.
“That’s better. You bringin’ us to Sam and Dean?”
“Yeah, I just, um- One second.” You squeeze your eyes shut, and let the Silver out slowly. It’s going to have to touch Ellen, but that’s just another thing you’re trying not to think about. You’re saving her, not infecting her. You’re just carrying her with you to Cas. You’ve never tried to do that before, though. You could fuck it up. You could just vanish without her, or land her in the wrong place, or fuck up and raze her soul in the process-
Don’t think about it.
Just think about Sam and Dean. Their happy memories. You just need one, from either of them. And it can’t be your happiest memory of them—you have to remind yourself that, over and over, because all you can think of is playing Trivial pursuit with Sam in Bobby’s library, and sitting with Dean in the Impala, wiping a smear of chocolate milk from his lip as he grinned at you, and they might not care for those memories at all—so your best bet is something they’d told you about. Sam’s fourth grade visit to a planetarium. Dean getting to drive Baby for the first time by himself. Maybe one of those Vegas weeks Dean’s tried to get you to join last year, or an easier night at the roadhouse. A weekend with Bobby, or the only school dance Sam ever got to attend.
Or one of Dean’s many fun nights, at bars or on road trips. That one girl Sam mentioned years ago, who he spent a whole week with when he said he was going on a road trip. Or the sex spree after he made the demon deal, while you were still running around the country avoiding Hell’s Assassin’s. A good memory with Sam from their childhood, like a Christmas or Halloween. Or maybe just something simple. Dean loves simple things, and he loves them with all his heart. Pie and music and sleep. Pretty things. Good, easy things.
Things that you aren’t. That you’ve never been. And you really want to be in his Heaven. You’re best friends, and you know he’s at least a little attracted to you, but Heaven is a high bar, and you’re complicated.
You’ve always been complicated, and sick, and a lot more trouble to tame than you’re worth.
You’re caught in the tide again, and you’re not quite sure where you’re going. You’re only the Silver—and a spot of dark green, tangled up and flowing with you—but, through the haze of colors and light, you can see it. Dean’s Gold, that you’ll love until someone finally muzzles you properly, and you’re only a feral, gnashing beast trying to rip off your collar and go home. To Dean.
You love him. It’s really all you can think. And whatever white thing grabbed you before isn’t going to catch you this time. You won’t let it, because you need to get to Dean.
And you’re yours again, just like that, as you crash down into his gravity.
You’re sitting on something soft, in a dark room. There are blankets over your head and, peaking through a gap, you can see a bunch of little, plastic stars stuck to the walls and ceiling and-
Those are your walls. These are your blankets. This is your fucking room, from right before Dean died. His I’m dying party that you’d hated, but gone to anyway. Because it was for Dean. And you’d loved him, just like always.
“Was this a trap, Princess?
You turn your head, and there he is. Golden. Your Dean, the real Dean, looking a little older than he did when this had happened, but giving you the same boyish smirk he always has. The one you might rip Heaven apart just to see, every single time. You’re in his Heaven.
“This,” you swallow a lump in your throat, your fingers curling on your calf. “This is your heaven?”
Dean blinks at you. “Course it is. But I don’t think you’re supposed to know that, sweetheart, you’re just a memory.”
Your lips twitch, even as the Spiderweb glows so bright you think it might turn into all that you are. You don’t know if you want to kiss him or shove him or just hug him for a million years and never let go.
“But you died like, right after this.” You whisper. “How is that Heaven?”
“You made me a blanket fort and said you didn’t want me to die,” he sounds confused. Like he can’t possibly fathom why this wouldn’t be heaven. “You trusted me about your family, and we hugged, it was awesome-“
“Uh, Dean?” The entrance to the blanket fort opens, revealing a ducked down Sam. Purple. The real Sam. He barely even spares you a glance, as if he’d expected to see you here. In Dean’s Heaven. “I think something’s happening. Cas is out here.”
Dean frowns. “Thought he couldn’t get into past the pearly gates to help us-“
“Says that he got a boost.” Sam tilts his head in your direction, saying your name. “She gave it to him. And she’s supposed to be here too. Cas is worried cause it looks like Ellen’s showed up, but they were supposed to come together or something-“
“Sam.” You keep your voice dry, and Sam freezes. “I’m right here.”
They’re both gaping at you. And you adore them, but for all the shit Dean has always given you about hunting alone, you’re not sure how they survived this long without you there all the time.
“You can see me.” Sam says a little stupidly. “But this is, uh- This is Dean’s heaven-“
“And I’m me.” You have to fight down the flush on your cheeks. You’re not sure it works. “I must have taken Memory-Me’s place.”
Dean clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck with an almost nervous expression. “But you’re, uh- Have you been you the whole time?”
“Uh, only for like five minutes. C’mon,” you reach out a hand before you can think better. “We’ve gotta go, Dean-“
Your words fall into a yelp as Dean grabs your hand and yanks you forward, all the way into his lap. Your arms wrap around him on instinct, your face resting in the crook of his neck, and this really is your Dean. He smells like cinnamon, his Gold is everywhere, and his voice is hoarse in your ear.
“Thought we lost you,” he mutters, one of his hands cradling the back of your head as the other squeezes your hips, as if he’s checking you’re real. “Son of a bitch, Princess, you were supposed to call me, and when we got to the church the Firebird was parked out from, and- I thought-“
“I’m sorry.” You whisper, bunching his jacket in your hands. “I- I’m okay. I’m not even dead, I just got sent to the Garden, and-“ You sigh, shaking your head against him. “I’ll tell you later. We have to go, Dean.”
He grunts, slowly detangling himself from you, but his hand slides back into yours in a second. One squeeze. Checking in.
You give him a soft smile as he helps you to your feet, and squeeze back three times. I’m good.
I love you.
He gives a tight nod, and you step out of the blanket for to find everyone else awkwardly waiting for you. Sam gives you a nervous smile, Ellen’s looking around your room with a frown, and Adam is staring at you.
Cas says your name, and you turn to find him sitting on the edge of your mattress. “Any issues?”
“Not yet. You think you can get all four of them?”
He pauses, then nods. “I will have to go two at a time. Just one resurrection requires effort, but all four them have intact bodies, and I feel… strong. I can handle it.”
You nod, and Sam clears his throat, raising his hand.
“Can you guys explain what’s going on-“
“Once you’re alive, yes.” Cas pushes to his feet, and Dean scowls.
“Do you two rehearse this or something? I mean, Adam was dead this freakin’ morning, we can’t just move past that-“
“Dean.” You give him a firm look, and his mouth snaps shut. “We have to go. It’s not safe to linger-“
“Why?” Adam cuts in, earning a glare from Dean—which you want to laugh at, because he’d been pushing the same thing only seconds ago—and you sigh.
“Because-“
“Of me.” Zachariah’s sneer cuts through the air, and your blood almost curls in your body. You don’t want to turn around and see him. You’re so fucking close to getting everyone out.
But he’s there. And you’re fucked.
“This is very convenient,” he hums, walking around the room with a snake-like grin. “I mean, all of you in one place? And Castiel, too?” Zachariah laughs, and your grip on Dean’s hand tightens. “I mean, it’s like my birthday’s come early.”
“We do not have birthdays, Zachariah.” Cas mutters, taking a side-step to block Sam, Adam, and Ellen.
His eyes meet yours for a second, and you give him a tight nod in return. You’ve got Dean. He’s got the other’s.
“You always were so literal.” Zachariah scoffs, rolling his eyes at Cas. “And you shouldn’t be able to be here, either. I thought we made that very clear. Unless-“ Zachariah cuts himself off, turning his glare to you. “Of course it was you. Looks like the whore is learning some new tricks-“
“Hey.” Dean snaps, taking a step forward to block you from Zachariah’s view, and you love him but God, he can be such a fucking idiot. “Don’t talk to her like that, dickbag-“
“I get it, Dean. You’re a big, scary guard dog, and I should be running. But I’m not, am I? Because you’re just a meat sack that’s the perfect temperature, and she,” Zachariah lets out a long, pained sigh. “Is annoyingly the most important soul ever made. She’s my meal ticket. And I need her back, now.”
You swallow, and Dean tenses in front of you. It’s not brave to strong, to press against his back, and try to hide your face in his side. But it’s all you want to do. He’d be warm. Strong. Like a tree that shields you from the view of the Sky, all while keeping you shaded under its shadow. And you manage not to hide, but the pain is building back up as the Silver rushes just a layer under your skin. You don’t know what made the numbness stop. Maybe it’s the same thing that’s making you grab and rub your wrist, trying to keep the Silver down. You can’t explode now. Not here.
But Zachariah leans around Dean, his gaze locked onto yours and his lips twisted so horribly, and you choke on the bile in your throat.
“Boss wants to talk to you,” he says the words like he hates them. You’re not exactly a big fan either. “And the rest of you,” he stands back up. “As much as I’d like to squish you under my shoe, it’s your lucky day.”
“Zachariah.” Cas says, eyes narrowed. “I am not going to let you touch them-“
“You can’t do anything about this.” Zachariah snaps. “You might be, if she,” his head jerks to you. “Knew what the fuck she was doing, but she doesn’t. And you might be able to break in a window, but I still have the keys, and a shotgun. So get. Out.”
You don’t get a warning this time. Zachariah’s snap is quick, and the Silver doesn’t get to react. The memory of your room vanishes. Sam, Dean, and Cas go with it, it feels like wind is ripping and biting at your skin for a horrible, split second before you land again.
It’s not clear where you are, over the blur of the world. The Silver is more than burning. It’s molten, almost acidic, and it hurts. It all fucking hurts again, and you can’t really fucking breathe, and Dean. You lost him. His hand was in yours, but you were sick, and you’re a worse sort of pestilence that’s taking everything down with it, and what fucking use is being the Bride or the Magdalene or the Angel Killer or Death Raiser if you can’t ever fucking control it, can’t use it to protect instead of faltering and rotting-
Someone’s calling your name, but you can’t really hear anything over the ringing in your ears. One hand is pressed to the right of your heart, the other on your throat, and you’re not sure if you’re trying to strange yourself or feel for it. The Spiderweb. It’s not dark, not offline. When you press your fingers into the base of your throat, and the rioting of the Silver falters for a second—and the pain builds, but you’ve survived worse—you can feel it. Clear. Bright, and casting rainbow light around your rib cage. Even sharper than a moment before, because Dean isn’t in Heaven, but it’s because he’s alive.
He’s alive.
And if Dean’s alive, alive and on Earth, Sam and Cas are likely fine too. Zachariah said it was their lucky day. They’re okay. And you might need to be a little more worried about yourself.
Your name is repeated, with a little more urgency, and your vision clears as the Silver eases. Ellen is kneeling next to you—you seem to have fallen to the ground—and holding your face between her hands, her eyes scanning over your features frantically. Adam is standing off to the side, looking equally worried, but still mostly just gaping at you. All the furniture is embroidered. Gilded. Expensive. Maybe still Heaven. The Silver is still active, but the pain is too. Every color is a little brighter, but your eyes might just be adjusting.
It doesn’t really matter.
Just to test, you try to let a little of the Silver out. To see if you can expand, and turn Heaven to your will like before.
The room shifts. All the fancy furniture turns to a well-worn couch and knotted wood table. The carpet turns into the rug in Bobby’s living room, and the tapestries on the walls turn to the old sunset painting Bobby keeps in his study. But when you try to push further, it’s like you slam into a wall. It doesn’t hurt, but it rushed through you like a small electric shock, and your eyes shoot open.
Iron. It’s fucking iron, and it doesn’t do to you what it used to, but it still seems to have an effect.
You’re trapped.
Ellen snaps your name, and you blink at her. “You gotta tell me you’re with us-“
“I’m with you.” You mumble, dragging your nails over the skin of your throat. “We’re- Fuck.”
“The boys-“
“They’re alive.” You move slowly to your feet, rubbing the scar on your palm. “Most of them are.” You give Adam a small smile. “Hi.”
His eyes widen. “Hi. You, um- I still don’t understand what’s going on-“
“You’re collateral.” You mutter, scanning around the room. Not a lot to work with. You don’t know if you’re still in Heaven, even if you do escape, you can see the Enochian, etched into the wallpaper and wood. Ownership wardings. No praying to Cas. No getting back to Earth. “They want to talk to me, and I’ve been known to, uh-“ You sigh. “Cause damage.”
“Damage?” Adam takes a step forward, sort of looking at you like you’re some sort of fallen star. “To angels?”
“And others.” You tap your finger against one of the wardings, and it zaps. “Fuck.”
Ellen frowns. “What? You don’t think you can get us out?”
You shake your head. “I- I don’t know. I’ve sort of- teleported before, but only twice.“ Because something had been calling to you, the Spiderweb bursting in your chest, and you’d wanted to follow it all the way down. “And I can’t do it on command. Plus I’ve never- I needed Cas. For the resurrections.”
Ellen pauses. “Think you could try yourself?”
“Maybe.” You give her a tight look. “But I don’t know about two at once.”
Ellen lets out a long, heavy sigh, and Adam clears his throat.
“Can someone please tell me what’s going on. I don’t know you,” he gestures to Ellen, before turning to you. “And Sam and Dean seemed close with you, and I know I’ve never actually met them, but I would’ve remember you if they’d brought you with them-“
“They didn’t.” You mutter, starting to move through the books on the shelves. When you open on, it’s real. With words, but they’re swimming a little on the page. Enochian. Better than nothing. “I was in Europe.”
“That where you went?” Ellen asks, and you freeze.
“I’m sorry-“
“Honey, I’m just glad you didn’t die, or blow somethin’ up-“
“I blew a few things up.”
Ellen laughs. “Anything important?”
And image flashes over your vision. A child’s soul, stained on the pavement and being delicately placed back into her body.
Wait.
Fuck.
Ellen says your name, and you can hear the frown in her voice. “You-“
“I’m okay.” You stand suddenly, the book tight in your hand. “I- I might have it. A way out. We just need to wait.”
They listen, but this is the kind of plan Dean would glare at you about. It’s a little insane. But you can do it. You can. You’ve done it before, even if it wasn’t exactly on purpose. Resurrection will be dicey, but there’s no reason to think you can’t do it. Until you’re violently and horrible proven otherwise, you can. You’re made to touch souls. Heaven wants to please you. And there’s no fucking use to any of it if you can’t do this, and get back to Dean.
“Hi.”
You look up from your book, and find Adam sitting next to you with a nervous smile. “Hi.”
“You, uh,” he scratches the back of his neck, eyes flicking between you and the carpet. “Nobody ever told me what’s going on.”
“Oh, right.” You sigh, closing your book and tipping your head back. “Um- It’s the apocalypse. Michael and Lucifer are going to have a death match, but they need Sam and Dean’s bodies-“
“I know that, actually. The angel guy explained it.” He frowns. “He was, uh- Kind of a dick about it, though.”
You snort. “You have no idea.”
Adam nods, and gives you a strange look. “I was kind of wondering, uh- About you?”
“Me?” You frown at him. “Why?”
“You seem interesting.” He shrugs. “I mean, you showed up threatening angels with knives, and you were flying around heaven. I’m curious. I mean, how’d you even meet Sam and Dean?”
“They were on a case.” You shrug. “Ran into them, told them they were wrong about what they were chasing, fought with John about it-“
“John? You met my dad?”
Shit. “Uh, yeah.”
“Were you-“
“He didn’t like me.” You keep your words short, and a little apologetic, but Adam only frowns.
“Why? You seem cool, and you’re, uh-“ He blushes, and you’re not sure what the fuck is going on. “I mean, you seem very capable, and Sam and Dean trust you-“
“I’ve been hunting with Dean for years. And Sam’s like my brother.”
Adam pauses. “But Dean isn’t?”
Fuck. “It’s complicated.”
“Oh.” Adam nods slowly, looking back down to his feet. “Sorry, I’m not trying to push-“
“You’re not.” You sigh, tipping your head back to frown at the ceiling. “It’s all a lot.”
“Right?! I mean, I’ve got memories that aren’t mine, and angels are after us, and I- You’re really pretty but everyone seems to hate you- And you smell like vanilla-“
Adam’s words die before you can even fully register them, and when you look up. He’s knocked out. Head lolling to the side, eyes closed, mouth still parted and breathing steady. Ellen is the same, sitting at the table.
Then a deep voice that you don’t recognize says your name in Enochian, and your head whips to see Yellow. Pure fucking Yellow, with eyes and fists and wings, made of gleaming, wrathful light. A little brighter than the Blue and the Red.
Michael.
“I had to knock them out.” He says, although there’s nothing apologetic in his tone. “They can’t look at me like you. It would’ve killed them, and I don’t think that’s any way for us to be introduced.”
You swallow, and there are too many eyes looking at you. It’s like the Sky, concentrated down in a crude attempt of imitation. Because Michael isn’t the Sky. You remember the Sky, from when you were younger.
He was a lot angrier, and a lot lonelier.
“I am Michael.” He adds, extending a hand. “And I know you’ve met.” He frowns. “Zachariah. I apologize for him, he’s a hard worker, but a bit of what human’s would call an asshole.”
Behind him, you can see Zachariah frown, but he doesn’t say a word. It’s a little amazing.
“I think you’re supposed to introduce yourself.” Michael flexes his hands, frowning down at you. “I’m Michael. The archangel.”
You blink at his hand, then back to his eyes, seeming to crawl all over your skin. “You made me lose my groceries.” Your eyes narrow. “And my car-“
“I returned your car.” He corrects. “It is on the outskirts of your wards, Dean will find it soon. I had Zachariah return him and Sam safely, as well as Castiel. I would have put your groceries as well, but those wards are…” He chuckles. “Strong. You are quite the bright little thing. I like you.”
Your nails are digging into your wrists. “Why?”
“You are quite likable.”
“No, I’m not.” You snap. “And I meant why would you do that. For me?”
Michael frowns. “You are likable. Maybe not to humans, but you were not made for them. You are beautiful and kind and firm. Resilient. Perfect."
“That’s not answering my question.”
“You are stubborn as well.” Michael laughs to himself again. “But what is family if not fighting-“
“We are not family-“
“We will be.” Michael shrugs. “That’s why I saved your favorite humans. Which I understand. You haven’t seen. You don’t know that they’re all really the same yet. But you’ll learn. I can help you, until he gets home. And I understand why my little siblings have been so eager to keep you out, but they haven’t seen either. All they know is that you’re the great descendent of the mistake. The error. They don’t know that it’s part of the plan.”
Your eyes flick to Zachariah. “The- What?”
“The plan. My father’s plan. He doesn’t make mistakes-”
“What mistakes.”
“Lilith.” Michael frowns. “The first wife. A Magdalene, made wrong. But she wasn’t wrong, she was exactly what she was meant to be. Lucifer did ruin her,” he’s spitting his words now. “When he knew what the safety of her line meant to our father, but it didn’t matter. You are exactly as you’re supposed to be.”
The Silver is swirling and shifting like a storm in your body. You have an idea of where this is going, and once again, you don’t want to know. You’ve spent your whole fucking like desperate to know, and now it’s here and you want to go back, go home-
“And I would have preferred to keep you out of this,” Michael continues. “But you are moving things along. And the sooner we kill Lucifer, the sooner he comes home. All you need to do is convince Dean, and everything will be as it should.”
“I-“ Shaking breath. You have to keep it together, even if it’s by a thread. Even if it’s just so Zachariah doesn’t see you cry. “I’m not going to tell Dean to say yes to you. Ever.”
Michael sighs. “But you will. It is the only way you’ll be allowed to keep him. If Lucifer wins, he will be tortured for eternity. Alone. In pain. When we win, you will be allowed to keep him until the feelings fade. I will even let you speak to him, if you please.”
Until the feelings fade. They’ll never fucking fade. They hit you like a comet in the middle of June, almost ten years ago, and they’ve hurt, and they’re complicated but you weren’t able to make them fade, even when you tried to make them by force. “Lucifer said the same thing.” You mutter, holding Michael’s gaze. “About letting me have Dean.”
“Lucifer is lying. And he knows that you will grow bored of Dean, one I am gone. He is not who you were made for. Your attraction to him is the human part of you, but that will die when you take your place. When you sit on his throne, and know what true love really feels like.”
He’s wrong.
You know what true love feels like.
It’s going back. Every single fucking time. Even when it hurts, even when it’s complicated, even when you want to run. Even when something is chasing you, so you do run, and you go and go and go and never stop, until you get a little tired and you want to go home. Back to where it’s safe. Back to where you can sleep through a night and lean on them in the morning. Then they lean on you, and you’ve never felt more important. And when they’re gone, you wish they were there. And you see them everywhere when you’re apart, but you still go back. You can never think of doing anything else.
And every time you’ve looked up at the Sky, you’ve only wanted to run to where he couldn’t see you. And he’s never held you. Never leaned on you. Never done anything but shove you and yank you away.
Every single time you’ve looked at God, you’ve only wanted to fucking hide.
“I’m not made for anyone.” You say, your voice far too soft. “I don’t have a place, I’m from fucking Chicago-“
“Your place is here.” Michael cuts you off with a frown. “It is where you were destined to be. And you were made perfectly. To mirror him. You are the Bride of God.”
You can’t speak. And you think, that if time didn’t keep moving, you’d turn to stone here. Maybe melt into only the Silver, and try to stretch to a corner of the universe where you could build something safe. Or just hover over Dean like a halo, too intangible for God to see you, still strong enough to keep him safe. Alive. Happy.
But time doesn’t slow. And Michael sighs, scanning over you slowly, and says words you can somehow still hear.
“I know this is likely overwhelming, but it is what you are meant to do. And it will all feel like nothing, in another millennia. I will give you time to think, if that helps. Zachariah?”
“Um- Yes, sir?”
“Do with the humans what you want. No harm to the Bride, but if we need to kid, we can bring him back, and the other one,” he frowns at Ellen, and ice feels like it’s being shot into your veins. Painful and cold.
Startling you out of your stasis. Ellen.
“I believe her time was up already. Send her back to her Heaven.” Michael dips his head to you. “I will see you soon.”
There’s a flash, and Ellen and Adam groan behind you right as Zachariah’s eyes flash on your, and you step to the side. You said you wouldn’t fail.
So you won’t.
“Move.” Zachariah says your name in Enochian. “I don’t care what God wants you for, I’m not playing game with a little girl right now. They’re going back, you’re staying here.”
“I think I’m good.” You shrug, reaching past your jacket for your knife. You don’t really want to touch the Blade right now. “I recommend you move. Now.”
Zachariah sneers. “I don’t take orders from you-“
“I don’t care.”
The blur kicks in, and you’re moving. You slice at your own hand, then let the Silver fall out of you, into the knife. Then you’re rushing across the room and driving it right into Zachariah’s gut. He roars and reaches for you, but you’re faster. Studying Enochian paid off. You smear your blood Zachariah’s brow, paint it into a crude sigil as you twist the knife, and press it.
He’s gone.
For now.
“We need to go.” You spin on your feet, your attention turning to Ellen and Adam, gaping on the floor. “He won’t gone for long, and if he gets back I’ll have to try something else, and I don’t-“ The image of Anna, ripped up by far too much power, flashes through your head. “I don’t know what it will do to you guys. Just- Adam-“
You grab his shoulders and he stares down at you. “Wha-“
“Stay still,” You mutter, squeezing your eyes shut. Life. Think of life. The summer in Bobby’s yard, and the warmth of home, and Dean, grinning at you and talking and laughing and life.
The Silver moves forward into orange, and you can do this. You have to.
“Sorry.”
“Why are you-“
You grab Adam’s orange, and let out a soft breath. The Silver flows with it, soft and delicate, and Life.
You open your eyes, and Adam’s gone.
You fucking did it.
But when you turn to Ellen, any light dies in your throat.
Zachariah’s holding her to his chest, and angel blade pressed to her throat. Just like Jo had been.
You can’t fucking breathe.
“I wish,” Zachariah spits. “That I could kill you, you bitch. But I’ll settle for this instead. Maybe then Michael will let me at least chain you up properly.”
His blade presses a little further, your wrists sting with a phantom pain, you’re starting to build out. Too big. To do what you need to do, you’re going to have to be too sick. Deadly. And you’re bubbling lava under the earth and the lightning storms on a planet far away, and you can’t come back down. You said you wouldn’t fail. You said you wouldn’t fucking fail.
Ellen says your name, and you shake your head. It’s too much. It hurts too fucking much-
“It’s okay.” She whispers. “I don’t have much to go back to. Never had much except Jo. Always thought I’d end up dyin’ for her, and I didn’t get to, but she still went loved. She’d want you to be happy.”
“No-“
“I don’t think you know what’s happening, lady.” Zachariah scoffs. “I’m killing you, and she’s going to watch, and that’s it.”
Ellen’s gaze doesn’t break from your, and the weight of every single star—hot and pained and burning with fury and life and death all at once—is pressing onto your chest.
“I’m goin’ no matter what,” she says your name softly. “And I didn’t get to die for my girl. Let me die for you.”
A broken sound leaves your throat. “I- I’m sorry-“
“I know. I’m good though, honey. You’re gonna be okay.”
You won’t be.
Because when the Silver bursts out, sinking into Zachariah and pulling him out—prying him from his vessel, pressing him down until he’s contorted and his ugly brown is just a writhing little thing, in pain on the floor—Ellen goes too. You don’t think she’s gone. The Silver seems to grab her green and toss it somewhere, like ash and dust in the wind, but she’s not here. Not where you can bring her back.
You failed.
You fall back into yourself with a shaking breath, and there’s a hole in the walls. Something is roaring for you on the other side of it, and it’s making the Spiderweb sing, tugging on something a little to the right of your heart. And the Silver goes dormant—though not quite as immovable in your body—and it all fucking hurts again.
You’ll get through it. You have to get through it. You’re not going to be okay, but you have to get through it. There’s no other option, because you’re too far in it now, and God-
Later. A problem for later.
You grab Zachariah off the floor and put him a small jar, before you step through the door. It spits you out on the side of a dirt road, Adam knocked out in the dirt a few feet away, and you know you’re back on Earth.
God is watching you. Only watching, as you sit at Adam’s side and send Bobby a text that you’re alive. Dean will probably come to pick you up, and you’ll have to apologize to him. A million times. For all of it. For freaking him out, for failing, for how you have to tell him about being the Bride, and Michael, and everything Gabriel told you. That alone feels like a lifetime ago.
You stare at Zachariah in his jar, and your head starts to turn a little too fast. You sort of have the Silver. And you’re made to mirror God. You keep saying you won’t fail, and then you do, but this- It could work. And if it doesn’t, maybe you’ll just implode on yourself and take Michael and Lucifer with you.
But you don’t have a lot of time. And you need to move.
“Crowley.” You look up into the night sky, and there’s a soft rustle behind you.
“Hello, love.” He’s grinning, when you tip your head back. “You ready to make a deal?”
“I don’t want Death.” You mumble, your voice hoarse. “I want Pestilence. And I’m not kissing you.”
“One Pestilence, coming right up. And don’t worry,” He drawls your name with a grin. "I won’t take your revulsion to me personally. I’ve heard about you and Dean Winchester’s little bond.”
You ignore the Dean comment. “We got a deal?”
“Seems that we do.”
You nod, and your gaze flicks up to the Sky.
To God.
Watching you. Waiting for something you’re never going to give him, as long as just one fucking part of you—even if it’s just a river of Silver, embedded in Dean’s Gold—remains your own. He can call you his bride all he fucking wants. You’re not going down with anyone but Dean.
Ever.
End Note: Times like these She really wishes she was a drinker.
Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3
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You don't have to force yourself to bounce back so quickly. I read something recently that said "when you come in from a rainstorm, you don't expect yourself to be dry and warm right away", and it really resonated with me. It's okay to take time to dry off and warm up. Take the time you need to process what happened to you.
He waves you off immediately, “No, I’m not your problem, okay?”
Your arms drop, “You’re not a problem at all, that’s not what I’m saying—”
“Then what are you saying?” he challenges.
You almost bite your tongue but then decide against it, “I’m saying you’re being an asshole right now just because I tried to help.”
He’s angry and you’re someplace in between desperate and tired, but you push on, hoping you’ll be able to solve this without an extended argument. To little avail though, apparently.
A tense exhale from him, “I don’t need your help, I don’t know how I can make it any clearer.”
“It’s not about needing it—”
“No, it’s about wanting it. I don’t want your fucking help,” he snaps. “I’m grown, I can handle my problems myself.”
You drop your hands to your sides, “Then what am I doing here, Jason?”
“I don’t know!” You can literally see the regret sweep over his face but he lets the moment consume him and the words linger anyways.
You know he doesn’t always think before he talks, especially when he’s mad. You’ve seen it plenty when he’s fighting with his family. This is the first time it’s shown up with you though, and while you know it’s not coming from a place of genuinity—it still really fucking stung.
Far from being in your control, tears slip out, more at his tone than his words, and you remove your gaze in favor of the linoleum tiles. He says nothing as you start to cry, which only makes the heat of the moment worsen.
“Okay,” You take a deep breath, pursing your lips. “You need to go away.”
There’s a long, hard moment of silence, but ultimately he doesn’t fight you on it, only exhales harshly and slams the door on his way out.
The resulting reverberation of the apartment has your shoulders shaking, tears falling onto your shirt.
You and Jason don’t fight often but when you do it’s usually about insecurities and fears coming forward. He’d been having a bad night to start with and all you wanted to do was make him feel better but he wasn’t willing to talk to you or let you do anything for him. He gets selfishly selfless like that, but you know why.
You know him, in and out. You could’ve anticipated this—you should’ve. You should’ve approached the topic more sensitively. And it’s not his fault, his life has taught him that it’s safer to believe that other people don’t have his best interest. You know that.
Yeah, you know him in and out, but he knows you in and out, too. He knows you’ve shown him nothing but kindness and generosity since the day you met and you’ve reinforced a thousand times how safe you are for him. But if he still can’t trust you to care about him, then what are you doing here?
You let yourself fall back onto the arm of the couch, huffing in defeat.
It’s nearing two in the morning when Dick awakens, the bandages across his abdomen digging into his skin uncomfortably. He sits up, bedsheet pooling around his waist. The ache of the bruising pushes him towards his old bedroom door before he’s even fully coherent, narrowly missing shouldering the door frame as he passes through.
He’s still half asleep as he thumps down the staircase, cold hands stuffed in the pocket of his sweatshirt. He’s so out of it in his blind search for painkillers, that he nearly misses the large shadowed figure huddled up on the couch.
Dick stills, blinking warily.
“What’re you doing here?”
His younger brother says nothing, only continues to stew in the shadows, staring at the rug.
As his eyes adjust, Dick takes in his appearance: messy hair, tired eyes, only clad in a t-shirt and sweatpants.
He rubs his eyes, approaching with measured steps, “What happened?”
Jason remains silent for a long minute before grunting out, “Got in a fight.”
Dick nods slowly, shuffling forward a little more to sit on the far end of the couch.
“What’d you do?”
Jason doesn’t have it in him to comment on how his brother immediately knew he was the issue. It just makes the entire thing hurt even worse. Instead, he tells the truth.
“Be myself.”
Dick says nothing,
When the silence persists, Jason elaborates, even though it’s the last thing he wants to admit to.
“I made her cry,” he says, voice below even a whisper. He hates it and he hates himself for leaving you when he knew he’d hurt you.
Dick nods, not saying anything. He’s definitely been there before, though he’s not nearly as volatile as Jason can be, so he can imagine how this likely played out. In any case, Jason has never responded well to being pushed to talk about his feelings so Dick lets him get there in his own time.
He’s half expecting to end up with no results at all, but Jason pipes up after a minute, voice broken.
“I don’t know what she wants me to do,” he rasps.
Dick takes a deep breath, adjusting his posture. “When girls are mad you give them space but when they’re sad you definitely don’t. Is she sad or mad?”
Jason exhales desperately.
“Both, I think.”
Dick nods, understanding.
“Then go home.”
Jason shakes his head, defeated. “She told me to leave. She doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“What did you say?”
He huffs, not wanting to bring the memory back up. “I basically told her to fuck off.”
“Yeah,” Dick drawls. “I wouldn’t let that simmer.”
Jason’s head snaps over to him. “She’ll break up with me?”
“No, I don’t—” Dick pauses, thinking over his words. “It’ll be fine. Just go home.”
Despite taking the long route on the way to the manor, Jason sped back home on his bike, now unwilling to leave you alone for another second longer than he had to.
He creeps through the front door of your apartment, proud and only a little hurt that you’d remembered to lock it.
The apartment’s mostly quiet, nothing but a lamp lighting up the front half. He can hear the shower running from where he stands, the waterfall noise awfully muffled from behind the closed bathroom door.
He bolts the door behind him, pushing forward towards the hallway. He approaches the bathroom door, noticing how there’s no light flooding out from underneath.
“Baby?” Jason calls it out quietly, like he’s scared to commit to alerting you of his presence.
He hears no response, but he knows you heard him. He knows you heard him in the same way that he knows you’re sitting on the shower floor, curled in on yourself under the sensory relief that the pouring water brings. He doesn’t know how, he just does.
So he leans against the door, listening closely, and calls out again, “Can I come in?”
There’s a solid ten seconds of silence before you respond, just barely audible over the cascade of water.
“Not right now.”
Your volume has him wincing, saddened and embarrassed that he’s the one that made you feel like this.
He reluctantly walks back to the bedroom with heavy shoulders, thudding his weight down on the mattress. He sits half folded over himself for the next ten minutes, thinking only of you, sitting alone in the shower with your thoughts.
He perks up considerably when he hears the water shut off, and after several long minutes, you emerge from the bathroom, towel wrapped around your middle.
He stands up when you enter the bedroom, hands stiff and awkward at his sides. You barely look at him, having trouble willing yourself to do more than glance.
Your eyes fall downward, your lips pursing. You instinctually move to clutching the towel tighter around you, more than anything because you don’t know what to do with your hands.
It makes his heart break to see you so out of comfort around him—because of him—so he gives you the benefit of privacy, turning around so you can get dressed. It kills him to do it, makes him feel like he’s just some stranger in your life rather than him. But he supposes that he deserves to feel like that right now.
Whether or not you wanted him to turn around goes unsaid, he can only hear the quiet shuffling of you putting clothes on.
He waits until the movement stops, after he hears the squeak of the bed springs and the faint sound of the sheets being pulled up.
He turns around again with a silent sigh, taking in the sight of you laying in bed, back turned to him.
He approaches slowly, stopping just before his knees hit the mattress. He notices quickly that the t-shirt you’d chosen was one of your own. He frowns.
“Sweetheart. Can I touch you?” His voice is soft and low, like he’s trying to coax you back out to him.
It takes a long few moments, but you nod.
He sits down on the bed, still hesitant to go through with it.
“Will you turn over?”
An even longer pause and you’re flipping over to face him. You don’t make eye contact, only look blankly past him. Your blinks are heavy, and even in the dark, he can see that your eyes are still bloodshot.
He brushes your hair back, his fingers feather-light against you, like he’s scared to touch you too harshly. Like he’s touching porcelain.
He lets you hold the silence for a while, reasoning with himself that you’ll talk when you’re ready.
You let it go on longer than he’d hoped, past the point of him knowing what to do with it. He’d hoped you’d yell at him. He can take that, he knows he can. He can see plainly that you’re thinking deeply and wants more than anything for you to say it, scream it if you have to.
He knows he deserves it and he frankly would take anything over the silence. But then again, he doesn’t deserve the reprieve, does he? No, but he’s not strong enough to deny himself the chance to hear your voice.
“Say it,” he urges. “Please.”
Your fingers tap against the bed sheets for a moment before you sit up, almost defeated.
You face him, taking a breath and relenting. “I don’t like that you said that to me.”
He nods, brow deep. “Me neither.”
Your shoulders sag at that, and you feel stuck in the moment. You feel guilty too but you don’t know if you should. He didn’t mean it, you know that, and they weren’t his words, really. But the snap of his voice when he’d said it and the look on his face—it made you feel terrible. It still does.
You look awkwardly to the left, feeling heavily spectated by him and so hyper-conscious of all of your movements. The downturn of your lips gives way to burning in your eyes and before you can do anything about it, tears are spilling out.
Jason sees it immediately, his head lulling helplessly.
“Oh, baby. Please don’t cry, please.”
But that only makes it worse, the tears falling faster and heavier at his soft tone.
He forgoes asking permission and pulls you directly into his chest, a firm hand on the back of your head. It’s what you needed though, to be close to him right now.
“I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry, baby—” he murmurs against your hair, pressing a rough kiss as he holds you tighter.
You shake your head, sniffling. “It’s okay, Jay.”
“No, it’s not.”
That sentiment lingers for several minutes, as he holds you cheek to chest and rubs soothing patterns into your hair.
It’s not long before you’re able to fully relax against him, his touch feeling nothing short of therapeutic. Your breathing eventually levels out back to baseline and your thoughts start to find peace amongst themselves.
When you’re ready, you sit back from him, letting him see your face again.
He visibly winces as he scans over the tears on your cheeks, how they’re starting to stain.
You’re still upset, a little, but not nearly as much as you’re sure your face is conveying.
“It’s okay,” you tell him, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.
He shakes his head, “If I ever say something like that to you again, hit me. I’m serious.”
You drop your hand onto your lap, tilting your head at him with a serious look. “I’m not going to hit you—”
“Then break up with me. Don’t ever let somebody talk to you like that, especially not me.”
His voice is hard and you can tell the impact of his words have every bit of weight intended.
Your mouth closes and you waver unsure of where to go with that. Your gaze falls down to where your hands lie discarded on your lap and there’s a palpable shift to the air in the room.
“Hey.” He pushes your chin up to make you look at him, “Listen to me. You’re the love of my life. You hear me? I’m supposed to take care of you, make you happy. I don’t…I can’t talk to you like that. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
Your eyes flicker back and forth across each others and you can see the genuine sincerity etched plainly across his face.
He processes the comprehension across your own before his jaw tenses for a moment and he adds, “Nobody’s gonna talk to you like that, much less me. Yes?”
You start to nod slowly and he mirrors you until he’s convinced of your belief in the statement.
He rubs calm circles into your thighs as you both sit with the conversation, the light sounds of each others breaths the only sound heard. This silence isn’t the same as it was before though, it’s safer, more comfortable. It’s familiar, if not weighted.
“I love you,” you tell him quietly.
His eyebrows furrow like his heart was just shattered.
“I love you too, baby. So much.”
🦟 if you don't reblog things i'm actively sending bad vibes your way 🦟 and maybe also a plague
in which: sunday discovers a new emotion when he's under you.
warnings: 1.5k words, sunday is B(h)ORNY and doesn't know how to deal with it, he wants reader so bad, lowkey implied switch!sunday, gn!reader being sunday's freak awakening, NO SMUT BUT UNDER 16 DNI, not edited
a/n: five likes and i'll write nsfw for sunday
What good is a leader who can’t empathise with the lives of the people he was supposed to be leading?
This thought has plagued Sunday ever since he exiled himself from Penacony, since he joined the Astral Express in a journey of self-discovery and reflection, embracing the Nameless lifestyle so he can broaden the horizons that Penacony had restricted. There, he was so detached from the reality of the people he was trying to help, so trapped in a whirlwind of his own ideals to experience humanity, too buried in official duties to rejoice in the many wonders of the universe, the simple pleasures and the grandiose ones.
Since boarding, the former head of the Oak Family has experienced humiliation, desperation, and many close calls with death. It seems he underestimated how easily trouble found the Trailblazers, and the diary he carries with him has been updated with multiple entries, filled with exasperated recounts that ended with him being grateful that he is still well and unscathed.
Sunday has also experienced laughter, connection, and the bond of humankind- something he did not have before. When he controlled the Oak Family, had everyone under or at his fingertips, the only person he could depend on was himself. When Robin left to travel the cosmos, what was he to do than learn the bitter truth of independence and self-sufficiency?
Yet, he sits on the couches of the Astral Express and there is bound to be another by him, trying to converse with him like an old friend. He is mentioned in the conversations like an individual who they keep around because they want to, not because he is crafty, not because of what he can offer. No, he can’t offer anything right now, and the crew still wants him to stay.
He learns more about humanity with each passing day.
However, perhaps one of the more puzzling feelings Sunday has had to confront was… infatuation.
It’s a tricky feeling. It sends his heart into overdrive and his limbs to become jelly, and at the epicentre of this hurricane of uncharted territory, is you.
“Sunday?” Your voice comes through muffled from the other side of the door. He almost jumps off his mattress at the sound.
“Door is open,” he responds as calmly as possible, heart thrumming alive at the sound of your voice, beating in time with the rapid succession of your knocks.
The door slides open slowly to reveal you on the other side. “Pom Pom just wanted to let everyone know that we will be jumping soon.”
“I see, thank you for letting me know.”
“No problem,” your gaze then flickers to the angels that flock around him and he watches as your eyes gleam with fascination.
Then, without any hesitation or reluctance, you enter his room and approach him, the door sliding closed without your weight to hold it open. You stop before him without a bow, without a formal greeting of ‘Mr. Sunday’- no, you stop before him like an equal, which you most certainly are. In fact, he would even think of himself below you, but Sunday needs to unlearn this assumption of hierarchy, needs to not let it define the relationships he forms, even if he looks up to you and finds you reverent.
“Hey, I’ve never seen these little guys before!” You exclaim, sticking out a hand to act like a perch for the angel-like summons. One of them flits up to you and stays on your outstretched finger. “Well, not this close, at least.”
It keens at your praise. Like owner like summon, Sunday supposes.
“I don’t tend to bring them out. They are for combat purposes,” he explains.
Your eyes widen slightly. “Are you trying to pick a fight with me right now?”
“What? No! That’s not it-”
“-I’m kidding, Sunday,” you snicker. “We’re friends, I wouldn’t want to fight you.”
“Right,” he exhales, “I wouldn’t want to fight you either.”
“Besides, we already did once.”
He freezes at the memory, remembers when he got hit with the exact train he is currently boarding.
You, however, are unphased by the recollection, and even continue to rub salt in the wound. “I remember fighting against these little summons too, your owner was a real meanie, do you guys know that?”
They flock around you, spinning and fluttering like little fireflies. Instinctively, Sunday covers his flustered expression with his wings, and he doesn’t budge, even when he hears your laugh, the sound almost enough for him to melt into a puddle by your feet.
“Hey, hey, I was kidding, sorry if I took the joke too far.”
He uncovers himself with an embarrassed sigh, not meeting your eyes. “It’s okay, I think the memory is just… humiliating, more than anything.”
“There are no more hard feelings. Everyone has accepted you on board and none of us think of you to be the same person you were when we first met, I promise.”
Your words are completely earnest, Sunday knows it, can feel it in the way you tell him so unabashedly. So who is he to deny it?
“Thank you,” he says, finally looking up at you, “it means a lot to hear that.”
“I’ll say it as much as you need. Well, I’ll get out of your hair now, just prepare for the jump-”
Your sentence is interrupted by a shriek when you lose your footing, and Sunday feels it too, the force so strong that even he, while sitting, feels as if is being stretched and pulled into a miniscule hole. What he also feels is your body colliding on top of his, and his hands come to your waist to catch you in an attempt to prevent you from slipping, but it’s not enough and he’s falling with you onto the expanse of his made bed.
The Express is warping to some expanse of the universe, and his stomach drops at the sensation, spreading to the ends of his nerves before disappearing, just replaced by the extremely odd feeling of being pulled through the stars. He just hopes you’re comfortable, standing up whilst warping is tough, he heard the stories of when Stelle first tried to do it and how she fell flat on her face.
When the feeling of normality returns and Sunday doesn’t feel like he has been stretched out, he opens his eyes and tries to take in the sight before him.
You. Your face. Centimetres away from his.
He’s always thought you were pretty, but seeing you this close… perhaps just pretty is an understatement. His gaze unwillingly flicks to your lips and he wished he hadn’t because suddenly the urge to sit up and lick into your mouth is raging; a fire that can’t be contained.
Sunday wants you to push him down by the shoulders, with no gentleness or mercy, and just… devour him whole. His hands want to find you by the hips and pull you into him more than humanly possible, he wants you to indent yourself onto him so he can remember your taste forever, so that, in a way, you couldn’t ever leave him.
Alternatively, he would happily flip around and pin you against the mattress. He would pry you open, explore the cavern of your mouth with his tongue and suck your sacred essence out of you so that it can stay and settle in his bones instead, replacing where marrow should be. He wants to lay you vulnerable so his hands can explore places only you want him to touch, wants to take you so that you stay forever, wants to feel your tongue against his, wants to hold your face and feel how you react when he takes his time cherishing you, revering you.
This feeling is too much, these thoughts are overpowering, yet nothing has ever been more clear. Sunday wants you, lusts for you, even, and he’s never felt so intensely for someone before.
How would the symphonies sound when they learn of the atrocities he wants to perform?
Temptation holds him close and infects him with a desire so strong, he’s practically frozen in place as you recover from the shock, holding yourself up with your arms that were on either side of his head.
“Ow, I’m sorry!” You immediately exclaim, before realising exactly what position you are in, your chests are pressed together, and you’re mortified to think about how close you were before you picked yourself off him, and- his… his hips… are pressed against yours- okay, you needed to leave as soon as possible.
You scramble off him like he had burnt you, frantically shouting apologies whilst doing so, the words clumsy and rushed, but neither of you can deny how you miss the warmth that was suddenly ripped away.
(If he wanted to, you could have stayed in that position with him.)
Then, before you could get anymore thoughts, you turn and practically bolt out of his room without another word, leaving a hot and bothered Sunday behind.
summary: Cursed to walk the light of the full moon as a monster, young Sol, the last of the druids, finds solace in Trevor Belmont. As the two travel the land piecing together fragments of lore in their search for a cure for her lycanthropy, they stumble upon a prophecy of a soldier who sleeps deep in catacombs of Gresit, awaiting a hunter, a scholar and oddly enough a druid. Teaming up with a Speaker magician and a Dhampir can they come together to not only save Sol but also put a stop to Dracula?
content warnings: original characters, eventual romance, eventual smut, fluff and angst, found family, platonic relationships, gender identity, sexuality exploration, canon typical violence, character death, dnd 5E references
Masterlist//Next Chapter
Symphony of the Night
The air of the tavern was heavy with the scent of spilled ale and piss, warmed by the dimly lit candles that decorated the grimey bar and tables. It was the first time that Sol had ever laid eyes on such a place, pulling their cloak even tighter around themselves as they walked further into the establishment, eyes searching until they came to land on a dark figure arched over a stool at the bar. Trevor Belmont, the last of his kind, was nestled away in a corner, draped in darkness and an aura of mystery as the light of the candles did not reach him.
A teenage Trevor sat, his back to the tavern door, hunched over his ale as he sipped at it slowly. His dark hair wild eyes a stormy blue that held a certain sorrow to them. The flickering flames of the candles cast shadows across his face, illuminating the freshly acquired scar that adorned his face. Weary from their far travels and with hesitation Sol steps forward towards him, the night air running shivers up their spine. Summoning all the courage they had left, Sol reaches a gentle hand out, touching his shoulder. “Are you Trevor Belmont?” They said quietly, their voice trembling slightly. “I need your help.”
Shrugging their hand from his person Trevor looks up from his mug, his instinctual wariness of strangers flaring momentarily before he takes in their appearance.
The person behind the trembling voice was smaller, no bigger than a child who was on the cusp of adolescence. They were barefoot and clothed in tattered garments, wild hair and sad eyes, brimmed with unshed tears, peeking from beneath the clutched derelict cloak that didn’t even reach all the way down their torso.
“Who’s asking?” he asked, examining the child standing before him, with a raised brow.
Sol swallowed hard, their heart pounding like a war drum in their chest. “I-I am Sol.” They sniffed, wringing the remains of their cloak in their tiny hands
“My grandfather always told me if I ever needed help I should find myself in the company of a Belmont.” They confessed, voice soft and delicate. “I’ve heard of what came of your family. I’m sorry but I-I desperately need your help.” They clarified steeling themselves a they straightened their spine and continued. “I’ve been cursed to turn into a lycan with every full moon. I’ve already lost my family to this curse. I can’t hurt anyone else. Please.”
Doubt started to arise in Trevor, as his mind urged him to turn them away. He had slain such beasts before in his line of work but too often he had found himself not concerned for the individual behind the curse. Taking another sip of his ale he prepared himself to tell the child to get lost, to avoid the burden of having to save someone curse, it wasn’t it problem after all, but when he looked back at them looking deeper into those wild viridian eyes he saw the fear and the resilience behind their words, and most of all he saw the small flicker of hope stirring something deep in him he hadn’t felt for long time, the need to aid, to protect just as his family once did.
Reluctantly, Trevor nods and gestured for Sol to sit. They scramble onto the stool next to him, relief washing over their dirty face and the two begin to converse. As the two spoke, Trevor learns that the child is from Sitka, a small village some 50 miles away, had they really walked that far to find him? He also learned that they came from a family consisting of their older brother and grandfather before the curse of the lycan took them away from them, and that they were the last of a long line of Druids. Trevor nearly choked on his ale at that, druids and Belmonts had a long standing history of providing aid to each other so it was no wonder their grandfather told them to seek him out with his dying breath, but it was to his understanding that the last of the druids had died out decades ago, so how were you standing here before him?
Trevor continued to listen to the child intently, recalling tales of lycans from his childhood as they began to tell him how they came to be cursed. You were fetching water in the middle of the night for your ill brother when the ambush came, they didn’t remember much from the attack but when they came too they were naked and covered in blood, their brother’s mutilated corpse hunched over their grandfather’s as he spoke his last words to them.
Trevor grimaced as they finished their tale, knowing it must have been traumatic for a child to bear such a weight. Throwing back the last of his drink Trevor wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You won’t lose yourself to darkness Sol, I promise you, but this journey we’re about to partake won’t be an easy one. Are you sure you’re prepared for it?” He asks as he stands to his feet, hovering a steady hand to them.
Sol looks down at his palm and without hesitation takes it standing to their feet as well. “I’m ready, let's go.”
So began their journey, a quest that took them to new and uncharted lands, in search of any information they could find on a cure. Trevor knew of one way that would for certain break the curse but for the sake of his child companion they needed to find one that wouldn’t kill them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Over the years, as the child grew at his side Trevor noticed subtle things that he hadn’t before, but he always brushed it off as his imagination. It all came to head one sh while they were preparing for a bath, one of the rare occasions they had time for one.
The moonlight spilled into the clearing, casting a pale light over the water, Trevor found a moment of peace as he relaxed further into the cool water of the lake. He, now a young adult and his young Druid companion, now reaching the end of their teenage years, had traveled for miles, sharing laughter and experiences together that would last a lifetime, forging a strong familial bond between the two.
After weeks of being on the road they finally found time to wash away the grime of their adventure in a secluded lake, Trevor sank even deeper into the refreshing waters, until it covered him till the bridge of his nose, the lake relaxing his sore muscles as he began to blow bubbles.
A splash caused him to tear his eyes open just before he was drenched in the onslaught of water. Sitting up he wipes the water from his eyes and glares at the Druid as they laugh at his soaked appearance.
“Sorry Trevor.” They say from behind a hand as they try and fail to stifle their chuckles.
With a roll of his eyes Trevor splashes at his partner causing them to break out in a giggle as they shake the water from their hair, pulling it up into a bun high on their head. Over the years their wild curls had continued to grow long and unruly, something Trevor had often told them needed to be cut.
Trevor goes to open his mouth to retort, but it’s caught in his throat when he looks down to the curve of his friend’s chest that had become exposed when they raised their hands to put up their hair. Trevor was struck by silence as a disorienting realization overcame him, his companion, whom he had assumed to be a boy this entire time, was actually a woman. The shock sent a shiver down his spine, as he scrambled out of the water, heart racing.
“What were you thinking?!” he exclaimed, scolding her with an awkward mix of embarrassment and confusion. He couldn’t believe he’d missed this before, were their signs? Of course there were, there had to be! “I may be me but I’m still a man!” He shouts as he crawls to the banks of the lake, snatching up his discarded clothing to cover himself with.
Sol looks over to him perplexed by his actions, and simply shrugs. “I used to bathe with my brother all the time back in my village,” she replied, brushing off his reaction. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“That’s not the point!” He screeched his voice cracking slightly, betraying him.
“Then what is the point?” She asks cocking her head to the side as she started to come to get out of the water, wanting to come to his side but Trevor holds up a hand in front of his face blocking her form from view as he huffs in frustration.
“I’m a man, you’re an unmarried woman, it’s-it’s inappropriate Sol!”
With a frown Sol sinks back down into the cooling waters hiding herself from him as he was clearly disgusted by her nakedness.
“I’m sorry to make you so uncomfortable Trevor, where I’m from we don’t care for such things.”
It takes him a moment to remember you hadn’t grown up the same way as everyone else. Druids lived as outlanders, they grew up in huts in the wilds far from civilization in small tribe like communes and lived by the rules of the natural world, witnessing the migration of herds and life cycles of the beasts of the forests. Nature was in their blood, and that meant they didn’t think the same as those who lived in civilization did.
He was left grappling with his feelings of awkwardness as he struggled to try and get them—her to understand. Confusion flickered across her gaze as she wrapped her arms around herself and he began to realize that perhaps she’d never fully understand why he was in such a panic. With a sigh he stands to his feet, his clothes still clutched firmly to his groin, shielding himself from her view.
“Just hurry up and finish so I get a turn ok?” He calls over his shoulder as he turns his back to her so he could pull his pants back on. With a frown Sol nods to him as he retreats from the clearing not seeing the red that dusted his tanned ears and cheeks.
From then on Trevor insisted that Sol cut her hair and dress like a man for the remainder of their travels. "It’s for your own good," he would argue, as he took a knife to her hair, cutting the dark locks down to the back of her head, she now didn’t have an option in the matter. Before he would joke and tell her that it could get grabbed or caught in something while they fought creatures of the night together, but now, now it was a matter of safety.
While he himself no longer struggled with her newfound identity, there was no telling what would happen to her if some trodden man with ill intent were to get their hands on her. Trevor had no doubt in her abilities to protect herself, having seen first hand how far she’s progressed strength wise and with her very limited knowledge of Druidic magic she had learned as a child, he trusted her wholeheartedly, it was man he did not trust.
He meant well, Trevor would often tell himself as he found himself speaking for her, when in social situations. Her voice was just too soft, too melodic, he really had no idea how he never noticed before, even when she tried to deepen it to let her speak up or go off on her own, so Trevor tightened the proverbial lease he had already had her on because of her curse. No longer could she venture out into the marketplace on her own, no longer could she bathe in an inn, when he forced her to take a bath, without someone guarding the door, no matter where she was Trevor was always one step behind her.
Sol complied with it all with her head held high taking in all the new changes in stride. She donned a cloak lined in fur, one of Trevor’s old ones, that was clearly a little too large and adjusted to having to wear bigger, more baggier clothing. The one thing she couldn’t wrap her head around though was how different the revelation had caused Trevor to act towards her. Ever since discovering her true identity Trevor had become much more distant, even though he was never far from her side he still felt miles away, and she greatly missed how they were before.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As the months rolled on, the wedge in their bond lessened slightly but didn’t completely dissipate, as she continued to do what Trevor asked of her. Trevor, albeit clumsily, tried his best to navigate the dynamics of their genders, not really knowing how to be around a woman who wasn’t a prostitute, but there was still an air of awkwardness to him when around Sol. He found himself wanting to protect her even more but not wanting to overstep his boundaries with her. In moments of solitude, Sol would sink deeper into her thoughts and let out her frustrations with Trevor, while she appreciated that he respected her identity enough to go to such lengths for her she wished he’d let her decide what’s best for her or at least let her speak for herself once in a while.
Having filled their packs with food the pair leave a village, the last one they’d be able to stop at for miles and head off into the forest. The night sky blanketed with grey storm clouds that had covered them in a downcast of icy rain and soaked them clean through to their boots. As they ventured further the rain stopped as the sky began to open up revealing the edge of the full moon that sat high in the night both Trevor and Sol too lost in their own thoughts to notice let alone remember that this was the night of a full moon, the moon they had been dreading of for the last month.
The air around them was thick with fog and the smell of the wet earth when suddenly Sol's demeanor started to change. Her breathing became ragged as she slowed her pace falling behind Trevor who stopped to look at her. Clutching at her chest the first wave of familiar pain washed over her as an unsettling energy crackled in the air. In an instant, she started to transform, her bones breaking as they grew and rearranged them, her flesh tearing from her body to reveal salt and pepper fur underneath as she ripped her clothes away with sharp clawed hands.
Trevor's heart raced with fear at the knowledge of what he would have to do, to protect not only himself but her as well from the creature she was becoming. He watched in absolute horror as Sol continued to change, her screams of pain at the metamorphosis causing Trevor to falter momentarily. He had seen this before, from both her and countless others over his years, but usually he was prepared, how could he be so stupid to forget that tonight was a full moon.
Worry and doubt clawed at his chest as he pulled his whip from his side as Sol howled high into the air as a full fledged lycan, her glowing blue eyes narrowing as her gaze locked onto him. His grip on the whip tightened as she lowered herself on all fours and let out a fierce growl that rumbled in his chest. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he didn’t have a choice. Fixing his stance Trevor leapt out of the way with swift precision just as she lunged at him, missing him by mere inches.
Trevor maneuvered around her, using every skill he'd ever learned over the years to counter her attacks, with a swipe of her claws she tore into his side causing his shirt to rip and his blood to flow. Angling the whip he swings it until it wraps around her neck, tightening as he uses the momentum to throw himself on to her back. Sol thrashes about wildly trying her best to buck him off, but Trevor holds steadfast as he secures a fist in her fur. As a lycan Sol was much bigger than him, almost twice his size, but still small for a lycan of her age, for which he was grateful as he used all his strength to restrain her.
“Sol get a hold of yourself!” He screams as she continues to flail and fight, she trips clumsily over the mud and her own feet she kneels and he uses the opportunity to pull a heavy silver chain from his pack, wrapping it around a wrist that had reached back to slash at him. Sliding from of her back Trevor throws the other end of the chain around her other wrist and pulls both ends back behind her, She howls in pain as the chain burns her, the weight of it not quite heavy enough to restrain her fully but enough to hold her down long enough so Trevor could tie her wrists behind her back. Flipping over her shoulder she pulls his whip forcing her to fall flat onto her stomach.
Bound with a combination of leather and silver, Sol growls baring her fangs at Trevor as he grabs more chains from her pack and uses it to bind her neck, staking the chains to the wet earth below.
Sol starts to struggle against her bindings, the silver burning wounds into her flesh. Trevor watches her as he holds his bleeding side while attempting to catch his breath. Clouds danced across the sky, momentarily covering the full moon from view, Sol’s fierce snarls echoed through the stillness of the woods ringing though his ears as he felt the warmth of his own blood seeping through his fingers.
Her muzzle scrunched up as her wolf features started to recede, trying to revert back to her original self, an overwhelming sense of helplessness washing over him as her face strain in clear anguish. Reaching out Trevor tries to caress her face to soothe her pain but she snaps at him, nearly taking a chunk out of his hand. Instead he settles for sitting across from her, his back resting against a large boulder as he watches her transform again.
Her body quivered and softened as her fur fell away and her bones readjusted, settling within her with a dull ache. “You are not your curse, Sol.” Trevor says, pulling his cloak from his body to cover her form, shielding her nakedness from the night air. “You are more than the darkness that has cursed your life,” he murmured, voice full of emotion.
Tears glistened in her eyes as she lay there on the cold hard ground, the only warmth she had being from his damp cloak. He wanted to unbind her and hold her tightly, reminding her that she was more than the darkness that existed within her as she sobbed. With a shaky breath Trevor peels himself from the tree with a groan, his injury making him slow to rise, and he kneels in front of her, stroking the top of her head and she wept, knowing this would be the only form of comfort he was able to provide for her until the night of the full moon was over.
Trevor sat by her side until the first rays of the sun painted the sky, leaning into her side as he watched over her, refusing to sleep until she was herself again. She had long since passed out, her body not able to handle the act of transforming more than once that night as the cloud drifted in the sky overcasting the moon.
When she finally awoke, Sol was aching all over, her wrist and neck, while no longer bound by silver chains were scorched and raw, her body, while no longer naked, was clothed in loosely fitting men’s clothes that sported the Belmont crest.
Trevor….
He must’ve dressed her in her sleep. She thought to herself as images from the night before flashed through her mind. Panic began to take hold as she recalled the lashing out at him the night before, tears prickling the corners of her eyes as she remembered the feel of his skin tearing under her claws, the horror of having hurt him gnawed at her as her pulse quickened and her breath caught in her throat.
Trembling, she sits up abruptly, tears falling freely now as she gasps out labored breaths pulling his fur lined cloak tighter around herself. She was so caught up in her emotions she hadn’t heard Trevor returning until he dropped the bucket of water he was carrying as he rushed to her side, pulling her face into his hands as he looked her over, searching her eyes for what was wrong.
She stammered out apology after apology, her fear and anxiety getting the better of her as her gaze shifts down to Trevor’s bandaged side, his gaze softening as he moves closer, wiping at her tear stained cheeks, he drops a hand to her shoulder and squeezes it reassuringly.
“It’s okay,” he reassured, his voice calm and steady over her sniffles as he pulls her into his chest tightly. “We’re ok. We’ll get through this.” In that moment, as Sol sobs against him, they both realize that no matter what happens to them along the way, no awkwardness or darkness could ever overshadow the light of the bond that they shared.
|| dan heng x reader || E/18+ || first time, comfort, lore || wc: 13.4k || ao3 ||
Dan Heng is haunted by the memories of a man he no longer is. You are all to willing to help him.
minors, antis and ageless blogs dni
notes: ahhh!!! beloved dh... df... yx... this fic is a bit of a love letter to reader insert character studies and ship fic. making my two faves kiss on the mouth fr. thank you so much to @yinyuedijun for beta reading along the way!! hope you enjoy 💗
CW: reader is referred to with they/them pronouns and afab anatomy, previous dan feng/yingxing, descriptions of gore, descriptions of intimacy issues, author-created lore (plot crafted prior to penacony release), interpretations of HCQ lore, multiple characters experiencing post-trauma
NOTE: this piece is written in two points of view. one is from dan heng’s perspective, where the “you” he is referring to, is you, as in the reader. the other perspective is second-person pov where the narrator ('you') is dan feng. in these portions, 'you' have a cock and the assorted anatomy. these portions are written in italicized text.
Your hands shake. Your thighs tremble. Yingxing lays between them, your cock nestled in his mouth. It’s not sizable enough to hit the back of his throat, but Yingxing, ever the sensitive man, still has tears pricking the corners of his eyes. You stifle a moan into your hand, hastily slapped over your mouth.
Yingxing will not have it.
A strong, calloused hand grabs your wrist and yanks it. He pins your hand by your side, intertwining your fingers. He pulls off your cock with spit-slick lips and smiles.
“Beloved,” Yingxing speaks in a purr, soft and gentle and comforting against your ears. “You know I love to hear all of those sounds of yours. You’re not getting shy on me, are you?”
There’s a hint of mischief to his voice. You huff and kick at his back.
“Hurry up,” you snap at him. There's a bite to it; you mean there to be. Yingxing only looks amused by your tone— the only one on the entire Luofu who could possibly look joyful, when met with your distinct ire.
“Can’t I take my time?” Yingxing asks, licking from your balls, to base, to the head of your cock. You’re— wet. Leaking pre down your shaft. “May I undo you, my flower?”
“You’re an awful man. I will have you imprisoned.”
“You’d never.”
“You’re right, I’d do worse.” You have so many ideas brewing behind your eyes— ways to punish this wretched man for toying with you. Treating you so kindly and with such humor and wit. There is no one else like him— no one else in your many, lonely years who has lanced you in the way that Yingxing has. How treacherous of him, to steal your heart.
“You’ll have to tell me all about the ways you’ll punish me,” Yingxing hums, pushing the tip of your cock against his lips. It’s obscene. The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkle. “After you cum down my throat, though.”
Yingxing, that bastard of a man, takes you into his mouth against, bobbing his head, sucking and running the flat of his tongue over the bottom of your cock. It’s too much, all at once—
And how prettily you moan when you become undone (again) under this wonderful, awful man—
✶ ✶ ✶ ✶ ✶ ✶
Dan Heng wakes up with such a start, he nearly vomits. He does dry heave, snatching the conveniently placed trash can nearby and dropping his head inside to sputter. Spit dribbles off his lips and falls in globs to the bottom of the basket.
He sets it aside and rubs the heels of his hands over his eyes.
Again.
Again, again, again— he has these dreams all too often. Of a life that is not his, of a lover that couldn’t possibly, ever be his. They’re visceral, vivid— as though Dan Heng is experiencing them in real time, and they’re not some awful figment that clings from a past life.
They plague him, simply. He hates every moment of them.
The pleasure of them feels poisonous. That man is not him. Yingxing— is not his. The body that writhes and gasps is not his own. He’s an onlooker, a distant stranger looking in on something intimate and dead. It’s torture, really, but Dan Heng is an expert is quiet endurance, so he copes.
He stands, still wearing day clothes, and drags himself from his sleeping bag on the floor. His companions on the Astral Express all stated their initial concern with his choice of lodging and lack of a bed, but they’ve since calmed. Everyone on the Express has their quirks. It’s like how March sleep walks, Stelle occasionally glows from her chest, and you only sleep once every few weeks and never in your own room. Dan Heng enjoys his spot in the Archives due to the various motors and machinery that lay under the floor. It’s warm, far toastier than any other room, or bed for that matter.
(He is not Dan Feng. However, Dan Heng cannot deny that his more draconic instincts are somewhat intact.)
Dan Heng throws on his slouchiest sweater, threadbare and worn, and wanders to the parlor car. An hour or so of pacing usually cures him of any antsiness, and he can nurse a cup of tea while he walks too.
This night, however, you sit in the parlor car as well. Dan Heng slows as he sees you.
You’re— an enigma to him really. Everyone on the express is a bit of a misfit, but you are a newer addition to the bunch, and he and the rest of the crew are still grappling with your oddities.
Dan Heng has, since the moment he first met you, accepted he would never fully understand you. He made peace with it, moved on and has kept his distance except when necessary. It is better this way.
You’re staring, side-long, out of one of the wide windows of the car. Your chin is perched on your palm and your perpetually blood-shot eyes are half-lidded. Dark circles are punched beneath them. You look like shit. You always look like shit, and you have assured the crew that this is normal, despite March’s initial fretting.
When you notice him staring, a kind smile curls on your lips and you wave, good-natured.
“Hey there, sleeping beauty. Are you doing alright?”
“I’m fine.” It’s not the first time you two have met like this. The Parlor Car is empty, except the two of you and the dimly glowing whale fixture that hangs from the ceiling. It feels familiar, much more comfortable than the... unwelcome familiarity of his own dreams. “I’m just fetching a cup of tea.”
“Ah, a night cap?” You hum, and crack your neck. “Sounds needed. That last dream of yours was wild.”
Dan Heng frowns, “I’ve asked you before to quit that, please. It’s invasive.”
“I would if I could,” You shrug. “But, I can’t. Besides, your dreams are loud, Dan Heng. I’d be unable to ignore them even if I was at the back of the train.”
“Can you at least not mention them?”
“I mean, I can not. But... they clearly upset you, don’t they?” You tilt your head, eyes soft. “Would you like to talk about them at all? I don’t mind listening.”
“They aren’t your concern.”
“I’m aware of that, but that doesn’t stop me from caring. I know they’re distressing.”
“You’re prying.”
“I’m asking, Dan Heng.” You sound a little desperate. Standing, you pass by him, in the direction of the passenger car. “You can say ‘no, my fellow Nameless, I would like you to never speak of me and my upsetting sex dreams,’ and I won’t ever mention them again. I don’t mean to be a thorn in your side, but the past is easier to bear in the present if you can lean on folks.”
Dan Heng is silent, stewing and stirring under his skin.
By the time he has a reply formulated, you have left the parlor car. The only sign that you’d ever been there to begin with is a patterned knit blanket left where you were sitting.
Dan Heng snatches it up before he can convince himself not to and returns to his room to add it to his ground-bound nest.
...
Welt had found you outside of a space station, idling around a refueling station. You’d been wearing a dirty utility jumpsuit with the emblem of some IPC-owned subsidiary screen-printed on the pocket. Your eyes had been glassy and far away. When Welt asked if you were alright, you had smiled and told him, “Actually, I’ve never been worse.”
The Express loves strays. It’s ultimately what he, Stelle, and March are. Welt to some extent as well, especially considering his several layers of mystery. Himeko has the disposition of a kind leader and the heart of a mother, and for all of Pom Pom’s fretting, they are always interested in a new face aboard the Astral Express, for however long they choose to be there.
It’s sensical that you were given a shower, a hot meal, and a room before you even fully understood what you were signing up for with the Express.
Dan Heng was, notably, wary of you. It was the way you looked at him after the first night you slept on the Express (one where he had predictably been plagued with images of a body that wasn’t really his being fucked and loved in a way Dan Heng couldn’t conceptualize his actual self receiving). There was clear concern etched in your expression, however you never voiced it. Not at first.
It was only after a few weeks that March pointed out you hadn’t slept since your arrival that you revealed your hand.
A bloodline blessed by the Aeon of Dreams, Sacha.
Dan Heng had heard of the Aeon, distantly. A seldom-traveled path, one for those with imagination run wild and a penchant for long naps. There were whispers that the Aeon was asleep, constantly. Otherwise, dead. Regardless, you bore the Godbeing’s blessing in some way.
You revealed this during a routine coffee break, just before Welt, March and Stelle descending to a little sandy moon. Perched on a chair, legs curled over your chest, you’d laughed when March pointed out your lack of good sleeping practices.
“I don’t need to, so I tend not to. It’s a difficult habit to break.”
You had explained to Dan Heng and Himeko that you and your kin, a race descended from a small planet from a dead solar system, all bear this blessing. No need for sleep and—
“I perceive the dreams of others.”
Dan Heng had questioned, immediately— “Perceive?”
“That’s the best way to put it.” You meet his eye and you look slack in your shoulders. Unbearably calm and tired. “What you dream, I experience along with you. The more I focus in, the more vivid it is.”
(Dan Heng is horrified and doesn’t speak to you for a week.)
After some significant, quiet panic, Dan Heng had politely asked you to not perceive his dreams if you could help it.
You’d told him you’d do your best.
And Dan Heng— appreciates the effort. Even if it's clear it's not working. You are so often up when he rises for his customary tea and jaunt, and tend to prod him a little. At least stop him to chat for a moment or tea. You’ll sneak in a cheeky comment or two, usually, but they’re so quick Dan Heng can’t do much more than blush and stumble over his next sentence.
You look highly amused and soft, those nights.
You never ridicule him, which he appreciates. More often you look pleasantly neutral, as if trying to emulate the aura of a familiar house plant near a skittish black cat.
(Dan Heng knows he is the skittish black cat.)
It’s— too much really. Dan Heng would rather bear it alone, take his cup of tea and do his laps, but he also can’t find it in him to tell you off too harshly. You tend to favor the parlor car, anyway. You get lost in the stars and galaxies they traverse easily. It would feel cruel to ask you to sequester yourself to your room simply so Dan Heng can brood more effectively.
Dan Heng does not know what to do about his own haunting (arousing) dreams, nor does he know what to do with you and your unfazed smiles.
...
You straddle Yingxing’s lap, thighs tense as you roll your hips. Your lover’s length grinds inside of you, stroking something small and hot and so good you could get drunk on it. You chase the sensation, selfish. Your hands are braced behind you, on Yingxing’s thighs as he is sprawled below.
His cheeks are flushed and his hair is a knotted mess. A hastily ripped piece of fabric binds Yingxing’s wrist together and secure to the stained wood of the bed frame. You were kind enough to carefully pull out his favored hairpin (a gift, one you commissioned him to make... for himself. Without his knowledge. Yingxing was moderately huffy about it until you tucked it into his hair yourself.) and set it aside.
Yingxing is not a weak man, but you are a Dragon, and therefore keeping him restrained and tethered is not difficult. Usually, you allow Yingxing the privilege of carving out your insides at his leisure and pace. There’s a sweet torture to it you have found yourself having grown fond of.
There is no other soul, mortal or otherwise, short-lived or long-lived, that you would allow to exert such control over you. Yingxing is an exception for you in so many ways. How dear this (foolish) craftsman has become to you.
“B-Beloved,” Yingxing’s voice is tight, strained. There’s sweat beading on his temples. “Might I persuade you into moving?”
You hum. Your tail wraps around his leg, from ankle to thigh and squeezes. The feathered tail flicks at Yingxing’s tense muscle and he jolts under you. A glittering laugh leaks from the corner of your mouth.
“Persuade me then.”
“Y-You’re not making this easy, are you?”
“I told you I wouldn’t. And you still agreed.”
“I thought the great Yinyue Jun would grant me some mercy at least. Excuse my wishful thinking. I thought that my dearest husband would forgo being a brat for at least a single night—”
You scoff.
You roll your hips, slow and deliberate. Yingxing’s words are cut off, killed in his throat as his eyes roll back into his skull. Keeping your core tight, you bury his cock in your hole to the hilt. You’re flush together, panting. It’s a tight squeeze, it always is. But the slight burn is familiar and welcome as you throw your head back and moan.
The sound is sin. If any of the Preceptors knew what this man did to you, he’d be drowned in Scalegorge within the day.
Yingxing curses in a tongue you don’t know— it’s his mother’s language, he once told you. He tries to buck up into your heat, but you hold him down and steady. Clicking your tongue and racking your nails down his chest. Thin welts rise in your wake. Yingxing lets loose a choked gasp as you slide down on his cock. The stretch is so, so good. You crave this ache. You fantasize about it when you surely shouldn’t. It haunts your—
Dreams?
✶ ✶ ✶ ✶ ✶ ✶
Dan Heng wakes up so hard it physically hurts. He gasps, muffling a half-there sound into his pillow. It’s shameful. He feels out of his mind as he flips onto his stomach and ruts into his nest of blankets. The friction is dry, scratchy, and barely enough. However— the phantom sensations of a dead lover crawl over him. Nostalgic and tragic and nauseating.
He comes with a sob that he prays no one hears. He stains the front of his boxers as he grinds his oversensitive cock against the wet fabric. It’s too much. He’s too sensitive. It hurts, but Dan Heng doesn’t know what else to do.
He feels ashamed as he sits up and runs a hand over his face.
It’s usually not this bad. Usually he can will away any arousal with logic. Reminding himself that the pleasant touch and face he remembers is long gone and was never his to have to begin with. Only on a few occasions has he woken up disoriented enough to forget himself to actually get off.
He needs to shower.
Dan Heng blearily leaves his room with his towel slung over his arm. The showers are on the other side of the passenger car. Dan Heng turns the spray on the highest heat, cooking himself as much as he can bear. There’s a latent energy in him that always swirls, begging him to push and pull the water around him, harness it for even a moment—
Before Dan Heng can entertain such things, he exits the spray, flushed bright red with his towel around his waist.
As he exits the shower, he finds you.
You’re perched one of the plush couches, tucked into a nook in the passenger car. Your signature blanket is not with you. You look— like shit. Dark circles stamped but your eyes look alight.
Dan Heng freezes as you notice him.
“... You alright?” You ask him.
“I’m fine.”
“You sure, bud?”
“Yes.”
“Uh-huh.”
”You’re patronizing me.”
You stumble, “I don’t— I don’t mean to. That was just—”
“Please do not—”
“A lot.”
Your cheeks are flushed as you rub at them. Your gaze flits up to his then averts to the floor. You look... shy. It’s an expression he’s never seen you wear before, even when you were pulled onto the express filthy and in a heavily patched jumpsuit.
Something in Dan Heng’s chest squeezes. He doesn’t know what to say. He feels entirely too exposed. He’s not fully dry, and he can feel droplets of water dripping from his hair down to his shoulders. His throat bobs as he gulps you watch the movement with rapt attention.
He coughs.
“I asked you to refrain from viewing my dreams.”
“That one was loud.” You frown. “Incredibly loud. Like banging pots and pans, fireworks and explosives kind of loud. I couldn’t have ignored it, even though I very much want to. I’d love to give you your privacy, Dan Heng, but sadly the intricacies of your mind happen to make your dreams essentially unignorable.”
“Must you comment on them?”
“... I heard you crying after.” Your expression looks uncharacteristically torn up. Your lackadaisical smile and humor are nowhere to be found. “I was worried.”
“I can assure you, I am fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I do, regardless. The whole Express does.”
“I appreciate it. Though, it’s unnecessary.”
“Of course. Sure. Because you’re the paramount example of ‘not needing care’.”
“I’m self-sufficient.” This time, he frowns.
“You are.” You stand up and walk toward him. “‘Sufficient’ implies adequacy, not prosperity.”
“What are you implying?”
Your hands ball into fists at your sides, “That you, Dan Heng, seem like you could use some help. I won’t pry at your past, I’m aware it’s not my place to do so— however routinely having uncomfortably vivid sex dreams about a man who you clearly have complex feelings about, probably isn’t good for you. There’s an inevitable amount of strain. One that I think that you’re ignoring.”
“What help do you think I need?” His voice remains level, but your proximity has him wriggling under his skin.
“... I— could be a decent listener. I have all the time in the world. I’m always around at night.” You struggle to meet his gaze, but after a moment, your usual, easy smile erupts on your face. “Or, would you prefer more... direct assistance? I could help with that too.”
“Speak plainly.”
“Was the last time you had sex with the man in your dreams?”
Dan Heng’s throat closes up. The cloudhymn that are under his skin thrum and encircle him, for just a moment. Your eyes widen at the colors and hum of it and jump back. You almost stumble. The surge of power and energy shakes the passenger car. The whale-shaped light fixtures dance above you.
Dan Heng swallows.
“And if it was?”
You look at him, really look at him, and your eyes soften. Your center looks wide and vulnerable despite the churn in the air, “Then, do you think it could, perhaps, be helpful to add some more recent, pleasurable memories for your dreams to play with?”
Dan Heng flushes so quickly, he feels faint.
The instinctual cloudhymns around him die in an instant. He retreats, a firm grip remaining on the towel around his waist to keep it in place. He mumbles out a hasty ‘goodnight’.
He is unsure if you hear him.
...
In the days that follow, neither Dan Heng nor yourself, bring up your proposition.
The next morning, you look expectedly exhausted, but do not prod or pry at him any further. You sit at the long table for breakfast and munch on a piece of bread and some jam while Himeko goes over your next destination.
The few times you look at him, your smile is lazy and easy, however you turn away quickly.
You continue to skillfully avoid him.
Dan Heng— feels a bit bad about it. Maybe a lot. If he enters common spaces like the parlor car or dining car, you quickly leave after a peripheral greeting. You must be doing so as to not tip off the rest of the crew that there’s some amount of… tension between the two of you. Under different circumstances, Dan Heng would have appreciated the purposeful discretion, however something about it irks him.
The Express’s next destination is a repurposed space station at the edge of a solar system. A false sun, powered by a Stellaron— something to that effect. Stelle’s bodily composition is of some intrigue to the scientists looking to craft a replacement, while other factions wish to harness the Stellaron more directly than a not-so-distant source of light and heat.
Himeko’s engineering expertise is being requested, along with Welt’s understanding of Imaginary energy. March wants to go due to the complex system of bioluminescent algae that teems in the space station’s plentiful aquaponics infrastructure. (“It looks so pretty! I need photos!”)
There are very few reasons for Dan Heng to accompany them; the party’s already full. There are even fewer reasons for you to join, who, despite all of your assurances, looks particularly haggard and worse for wear. Both March and Himeko mother hen you into staying aboard the Express to keep Pom Pom company.
Dan Heng should make an excuse to leave as well. Something in his gut tells him it would be best to keep his distance from you.
(It would be easier that way.)
However, Dan Heng finds himself waving goodbye to his companions as they dock at the small port. Pom Pom has requested at least a single treat from their excursion while they wave exuberantly from his side.
You stand on Pom Pom’s right, lazily waving as well. Your shoulders are slumped.
As Pom Pom aways to dust the fixtures in the parlor car, Dan Heng faces you and speaks without thinking.
”You should rest.”
You blink owlishly at him. “… That’s not necessary.”
”You don’t look well.”
”You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you?”
”I am being serious.”
”So am I.” You roll your eyes and shrug.
You attempt to walk away from him, but Dan Heng finds himself reaching out to grab your arm. His hand wraps around your forearm securely, firmly.
You still, wide-eyed.
”You can sleep, can’t you?”
”… I mean, yes?” You frown, glancing at his hand then back to his face.
“Would it help?”
”Help what?”
Dan Heng deadpans. “You’re exhausted.”
”… Dearest Dan Heng, I am always in this state. I apologize if my withered countenance has caused you grief. I am fine.”
You attempt to wrench your arm from his grip, but he doesn’t let you go. Your frown deepens.
“Being intentionally daft isn’t wise.”
You stare at him, “I’m not being ‘intentionally daft.’”
”I beg to differ.”
You mutter something in a tongue that Dan Heng doesn’t recognize. “What’s your deal? I apologize for getting into your business previously. I have been trying to give you ample space and shut out your dreams to the best of my ability. Is that not enough?”
”No.” No, no, no— that’s not really. It. Dan Heng isn’t sure what it is, but at this moment, his mood has little to do with your knowledge of his horrible, awful, persistent wet dreams, but something else. “I’m not upset at you for that.”
You stare and your hands ball into fists, “So, you’re really pestering me over my well-being?”
”Yes?”
”Aeons, Dan Heng.” You say his name in a croon and it makes him shudder. He wants to scream. “It really isn’t a big deal.”
”Is it straining you to not… perceive my dreams?”
Your expression goes blank. “I mean. Yes. But, it’s not a big deal—“
“You look awful.”
”You can’t have both.” You are clearly frustrated. Dan Heng’s grip is unrelenting. “I can’t— I can’t attempt to block out your silly sex dreams without a not-insignificant amount of effort. I’m either going to be very keyed into that pretty silver-haired man who you clearly wish was in your bed, or I’m going to look a bit more worse for wear. The latter, Dan Heng, does not bother me. Fretting over me isn’t going to make me less worn down.”
”And you just… don’t care that you’re tired?”
“I’m always tired.” You smile then, the same lazy, curling quirk of your lips that you so often wear, ever since the Express dragged you aboard from that rest stop. Dull-eyed and wearing a filthy utility jumpsuit. “I don’t want to cause you all any additional grief. I wish you wouldn’t worry about me.”
Dan Heng doesn’t know what to say.
“... That isn’t your choice.” The words feel paltry, half-there.
You pull your arm from his grip, thumbing at the spot where he held you. Your soft day clothes have rumbled under his grip, “That’s hilarious, coming from you, Dan Heng.”
“This is different.”
“How so?”
“Because—” Dan Heng clicks his tongue. Something— something simmers just under his chest. Something bigger than himself, salty like the sea and heavy like green stone that writhes as you stare him down. “Because my dreams are my business. The man— men— in my dreams are my ills to carry. They should not affect my present. You shouldn’t be affected by them.”
“Well, crazy, but I am—” You go nose-to-nose with him and huff. Dan Heng backs into a railing behind him, back curving. “Because I don’t like seeing you in pain—”
Something kicks Dan Heng’s shin and he hisses. You jump away from him with a stumble, looking down at a glowering Pom Pom. Their tail twitches.
“No fighting in my parlor car!” Pom Pom huffs. “Does Pom Pom need to get Miss Himeko’s ‘get along’ shirt?”
“That’s not necessary,” Dan Heng rushes to say.
You’re already walking away, out of the parlor car with a shake of your head and one last wistful look.
...
You tear your heart from your chest.
It is expectedly painful, even if you braced for it. Even if in your deepest meditations, you simulated the pain of such a loss with cloudhymn to prepare for this moment, on the off chance you would need to lose your heart from between your ribs and give it to your beloved. So few of Long’s scions retain the ability to rebirth with multiple hearts— only a handful of high elders, really. You can imagine what they will say about you, think about this act you’re committing.
Sin. And a painful one.
The blade in your hand clatters to the ground as you hold your heart in your own palm. It’s large— a dragon’s heart. It will not fit in the chest of a mortal.
(But, you will make it fit.)
Yingxing is— is— he’s dead. He’s a corpse on the ground below you. One of his arms is missing, while the other is twisted at a most unnatural angle. His star silver hair is a tangled knot in the dirt, Yingxing’s favored hairpin shattered somewhere in the foreground. The color is no longer pure. It’s a dirty scarlet. A mix of your beloved’s blood and Shuhu’s.
Yingxing’s eyes are half open and dull. Purple turned bruised-petal lilac. His lip is split and blood trickles from the corner of his lips,
This is not to say anything about his middle which is—
Not really there.
It makes inserting the heart easier. You think so anyway. Your hands shake (they never have before, not like this) and you cry (you have not cried like this before) as you shove the heart into Yingxing’s necrotic chest. You have to further break his ribs to shove your heart into him. Cloudhymn spins around you— a storm, a gale for you. It dulls the screams from your younger companion begging you to stop. A beast roars in the distance, above it all. The sound makes the air tremble and split. Your ears would bleed, were you a weaker species.
(A necessary sacrifice— she— she was already dead. Past saving. You only have two hearts. One which is yours and one which is now—)
Yingxing’s.
Your beloved flinches. Lurches as unnatural growth burgeons from him. He wails on the ground as magics spin within him. You are doing the most unholy thing to him. But, you must, right? You cannot lose him. You cannot lose Yingxing. You have given everything, always, as every self, to your role and its meaning— can you not have this one thing? May your beloved not stay by your side, however unfair and painful the circumstances?
Unblemished, ghostly pale tissue regrows from Yingxing’s body at an alarming pace. It rejoins his upper and lower halves together as he screams.
Yingxing’s hands wrap around your neck and you’re shoved into the dirt. You are not expecting the force and the impact, even less so. The air knock out of you and the cloudhymns shudder. The magics are thinner for a moment, you could see your other companions if you chose to. You could see how many Xianzhou cloud knights have fallen to the beast you created.
You ignore them.
You ignore them all to look up at your beloved. Eyes now a wild red, teeth glimmering white and stained with blood. His hair has darkened, silver turned dark, like it had been dipped in thick, viscous oil. Yingxing bares his teeth and screams at you.
“WHAT DID YOU DO!”
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, DAN FENG!”
—!
✶ ✶ ✶ ✶ ✶ ✶
Dan Heng awakens to a silent Astral Express. The trainship is still docked and it’s running on ancillary power in the meantime.
It’s entirely too quiet. All he can hear is the pounding of his own heart.
He scrambles to grab at his own chest— there’s no gaping hole. There’s no— there’s no blood on his hands (not real, material blood anyway . Various parties would beg to differ as to if he has any actual blood on his hands. But, the past is the past, isn’t it? These dreams are the afterimages of the life of a deadman. That’s all they can be. The man that chases him across the universe bears a different name and a younger face. The man who will always make time for him on a Godship, so very far away, may use his name ‘Dan Heng’, but is that who he truly sees when he looks at Dan Heng?)
Dan Heng dry heaves into his hands.
He barely manages to crawl to the little bathroom attached to his room to puke his brains out. He hasn’t had much of an appetite over the past few days, and most of what comes up is water, pile, and half-digested rice porridge.
By the time he withdraws and flushes, wiping his hand over his mouth, he feels winded. Disgusting. Sweaty and entirely too wet.
Shower.
Dan Heng methodically grabs his few supplies and walks across the silent Astral Express to the showers. He could take a bath— maybe it would help. March keeps minty bath products out and available that are so strong that they tend to pull any of the Express’s passengers out of a funk if used. There’s a little basket of them in the tiled common area of the baths. There’s a hand-written note in March’s perfect scrawl that says “Please take one❤️!)
Dan Heng snatches a few before picking his favored, individual shower. There’s a little atrium before entering the shower itself, where he sheds his drenched bedclothes and hangs them, along with his towel. He turns on the shower and idles for a moment, listening to the dull roar of it.
Water splashes onto him in droplets. There’s a (dormant. Dormant. He swears it’s dormant) instinct to ball the errant water up and toy with it with cloudhymn. The pearl that idles in the center of Cloud Piercer has many different ways to harness its power beyond a weapon of steel that—
(Isn’t his, is it?)
Dan Heng wants to vomit again. He steps into the spray before the nausea overtakes him.
The spray is cold— he usually takes cold showers, regardless of if it’s after a particularly intimate dream. He prefers cold water. He enjoys cold baths, but they’re a luxury he enjoys only once in a while, and usually for the better part of a day. He’ll stay submerged for what would be a worrisome amount of time (if he didn’t bear the spare parts of imbibitor lunae) and, despite his assurances, worries the rest of the crew. As sedentary and reclusive as Dan Heng can be, camping out in the baths for the better part of a day causes a stir amongst the express.
They’re a treat, a bothersome one.
Now, he washes himself thoroughly. It’s a mechanical and rhythmic thing. It soothes him. His breath comes steadier.
Dan Heng hasn’t had a dream that unpleasant in quite some time. He has always had the more gruesome— of tragedies beyond this knowledge. But, they’re rarer. He is haunted more frequently by memories of pleasure and that almost makes the shadow of Dan Feng more cloying. The gruesome are just that— gruesome. He has put together pieces of Dan Feng’s sin, though he refuses to touch the Archive’s documents ported from the Luofu on the subject.
Ignorance is bliss and Dan Heng feels knowledgeable enough. The breach between his own memories and Dan Feng’s is less solid than it once was. Dan Heng will more than likely find out with time.
It despairs him for a moment as he turns off the water and towels off. He feels— more lucid. Better.
He’s surprised that you haven’t sought him out.
There’s— no way you didn’t perceive that dream. Dan Heng can’t be entirely sure what you mean when you call a dream ‘loud’, but he knows the very real pain he felt during it could constitute as such. He listens closely as he dresses in new bedclothes. The Express is still quiet aside from machine hum.
Dan Heng could check on you. He thinks about it. Your room is just past Stelle’s and considering you weren’t in the parlor car, you’re probably there.
You shouldn’t have seen that. But, it’s not like Dan Heng can help it, right?
The tangle of feelings within Dan Heng writhes as he exits the showers. It grows even more unruly as he notes a change in the parlor car.
Resting on one of the plush seats is a hastily folded blanket, a still-steaming cup of tea, and a small, folded note.
Dan Heng approaches and reads.
DH
i’ve noticed you like my blankets. take this one. it’s one of my favorites.
have some tea and rest if you can.
— [name] ╰(*°▽°*)
The penmanship is shaky, and clearly quickly written. None of the paper’s folds match up with each other. There’s a spill of tea on the coffee table that looks half-wiped away.
Something heavy settles in Dan Heng’s gut. He gathers the blanket, the tea, and your note and heads back to the archives with a pit in his chest.
Like he’s still missing a heart.
...
Things come to a head a few days later. The rest of the Astral Express crew is still sorting things on the space station, and you and Dan Heng only have so much space to dodge each other.
And, truthfully? Dan Heng stopped avoiding you the day before yesterday. Now, he is actively (read: passively but passionately) trying to seek you out. This involves listening keenly for when you leave your room, but lately, those trips are few and far between. And always occurring while Dan Heng is asleep. Pom Pom confirms this, looking increasingly uneasy at the clear tension between the two of you.
Dan Heng— doesn’t know what to do. He is good at running from his problems. He put Cloud Piercer through— Blade’s chest any number of times and hopped to the next planet more times than he cared to think about. He ran from the shackling prison, the Luofu, and its General without looking back even in a cursory way. Dan Heng finds sentimentality to be a new feeling, a new fixture within his person and does not know how to handle it. He does not want to run away from you— he wants to run toward you.
The blankets of yours (three in total) are in his nest. He paces the passenger car each night hoping you’ll reveal yourself. He hovers outside of your door, hand poised to knock, but he never does.
He does not know what he’d say.
Dan Heng does not have confidence in his words in that way. He can speak well— it’s an overhang from Dan Feng, and he is grateful for it, but on more than one occasion, March has (rather explosively) shouted at him for being so... blank-faced in the heat of an emotional conflict. The two of them occasionally do butt heads, usually when March is attempting to run headfirst into a situation without proper forethought, and those encounters have ended with March tearfully screaming at Dan Heng to just be “honest with his face!”
His lack of expression is also an overhang for Dan Feng.
No matter how well-crafted his sentences and well-spoken his words, Dan Heng cannot connect them to how he feels... effectively. It’s disjointed. Like armor made with incorrectly sized plates that cannot possibly be pieced together. Clothing created with a misdrawn pattern, never able to be sewn in a wearable way.
If he were to face you, he is certain he will not be able to voice how he feels.
He can at least— do something. Give you something, since you seem so hellbent on leaving him special tea blends you’ve stashed away and BLANKETS.
(Do you have any idea what you’re doing to him?)
Dan Heng stops trying to run from you. He resolves to do something or say something because it's better than the widening rift that’s currently being run through the Astral Express, between the two of you.
Dan Heng gets his opportunity in the late evening. He’d— feigned sleep. Intentionally. A deep state of meditation for long enough that you might think he was enjoying a dreamless night of sleep, however, he’d only be idle, waiting for sounds of any of your activity in the direction of the parlor and meal car.
Dan Heng hears your door slide open down the hall as he sits upright, cross-legged in his nest of many blankets and pillows. Your steps are quiet, the lightest pad against the flooring outside. He strains to hear you.
He does notice, however, how you move even slower as you walk past his door. So clearly intentionally trying to keep quiet for his sake.
Dan Heng waits a few minutes until he’s certain you’re either in the Parlor Car or Meal Car before uncrossing his legs and bounding from his room. He means— to be more put together about this. But, he’s nervous he’ll miss his chance, and you’ll retreat, and be gone for longer—
Dan Heng finds you in the meal car, poking over cold dinner leftovers with a sullen expression. Your brows are heavy, eyes dull. You look— awful. You always look awful, he’s sure you’ll assure him, but now you look bad. You look ill. Unwell. The oversized shirt hanging from your shoulders billows in an uncomfortable way. It has too many undone buttons, leaving a deep v, exposing too much of your chest.
You look up at him, eyes widening.
“I thought you were asleep.” You say softly, putting down the tongs you had been using. You didn’t bother picking up any food, your little bowl is entirely empty.
Dan Heng opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He snaps it shut a moment later.
Your eyes soften and you sag. You look like you could melt into the Express’s floor at any moment. Your eyes radiate... pity.
“Did I wake you? I try to be quiet.” You laugh, looking sidelong, out one of the many windows. “Sorry about the fuss. I’ll get out of your hair.”
Dan Heng is frozen.
You idle, only for a moment, holding your breath, before shaking your head minutely. It— it makes his palms sweat. You try to shuffle past him. Dan Heng is blocking your only exit, and you attempt to side-step him as he gapes at you, unmoving. Unsure.
Dan Heng grabs you by the forearm as you pass.
He holds you there. Steady. His grip is firm and unyielding. Maybe too tight, based on your sharp intake of breath as you wobble in place. Dan Heng steadies you with his other hand. Without— thinking, his palm lands on your ribcage and you jump with the contact.
You stare at him, wide-eyed.
And you face each other.
“You’re avoiding me.” Dan Heng speaks first. His words feel sure, but there’s a sticky feeling in his chest.
“... Perhaps.” You smile easily, despite how worn you look. “It seems like you have a lot on your mind. I didn’t want my presence and what it entails to burden you, dearest Dan Heng. I apologize if that wasn’t clear.”
“What do you mean by your ‘presence and what entails’?”
You look like you’ve been punched. Dan Heng feels ill.
“Exactly what it sounds like.”
“Please be straightforward.
“Kind Dan Heng, I am—”
“Please, explain yourself.” Dan Heng feels— frustration bubble up into the back of his throat. It’s acidic. He looks from the grip he has on your arm to your face, lingering on the chapped lines of your lips before meeting your eyes. “Why do you think you would burden me?”
You look at him sadly, “I thought we’ve been over this.”
“We haven’t, to my knowledge.” Dan Heng frowns. You look like you’ve been slapped.
“I apologize.” You shouldn’t be. “Dan Heng, don’t I know too much?”
He locks his jaw.
You continue. “You’re an incredibly private person. I don’t want to know about a past you’re clearly not comfortable sharing. I cannot help what I am able to perceive, however I can create some distance between the two of us, so as not to suffocate you with the fact that I know about your dirty laundry without your expressed consent.”
Dan Heng’s mouth is dry.
You’re an unbearably earnest individual. As mysterious as you make yourself, you don’t tend to lie. You’re blunt in a way that’s disarming, heart flayed open as if rended with a short, sharp blade, on display for anyone who would like to view and poke at it.
“I apologize for communicating that more effectively,” You add more softly. You place your hand over his, the one bracing your arm. You squeeze. “It must be hard to bear those things, and you’ve made it clear you wish to do so alone. I want to respect that and you, Dan Heng. My door is always open, but I thought it might be easier for you to not... be reminded so easily, by my presence.”
Your eyes are wet as you look away from him, to the floor. You take the smallest, most guarded intake of breath. It looks like you’re trying not to cry.
Dan Heng feels something cold and large in his chest. Big enough to swallow him whole.
He says your name, even and unwavering, with the weight of the sea behind it. You glance up at him, straining to give him your same lazy, forced smile—
And he kisses it off your lips.
It’s not an action Dan Heng thinks about. You’re almost close enough to feel each other’s breath regardless. One moment, he is staring at you with his own frown, and the next his lips are on yours, tilting his head to search for the best angle. The force of the action has you stumbling back into the wall behind you. The hand he kept on your ribs moves to your waist, bracing you.
It takes a moment for you to react. A startled little (whimper, a whimper) sound gets muffled by his lips as he cradles your jaw. Deepening the gesture. You react and— return it. Moving your lips against his, leaning into his grip.
Only to freeze, and shove at his shoulders a moment later, “W-Wait.”
Dan Heng pulls back, panting.
“You don’t have to do this,” you tell him. There’s an urgency in your voice like you’re scared. You nervously run your hands up and down his arms. Dan Heng doesn’t even think you’re aware you’re doing so. “I— I offered sex to you seriously, but— don’t just take my affection because you want to close the distance. There’s other ways to be intimate, you know?”
“I’m aware,” says Dan Heng. Your lips are just barely kiss bruised. He wants to make it worse. It’s an easier expression of the gulf in his chest that writhes with your closeness. “However, I want to fuck you.”
The dullness of your eyes is stolen as they widen. Heat rises in your cheeks. You’re stunned speechless.
...
Dan Heng wants to eat you.
As in, he wants to have you in his mouth, under his teeth and tongue, and get you in his gut so you never go away again. It’s— a draconic instinct. Something carnal and old that could swallow him alive. It is another overhang from Dan Feng. Such bloody impulses aren’t... uncommon for Dan Heng. However, he has learned to temper them with training, combat, and more recently, some expression of cloudhymn.
Never sex, however. Because your initial guess was correct. Dan Heng has not ever had sex, and the last time Dan Feng had had sex, he is fairly certain was a teary, bloody affair with a half-dead, bloodied Yingxing.
This encounter, however, is very different.
There is no swirling Scalegorge and broken, coral-lined streets. There is no sand grating against his knees over Yingxing's almost-corpse. There is no tempest of his own making, cracking the sky in two, and tearing the world asunder.
Rather, there is his nest of blankets and pillows, and your soft body below him. He straddles your waist, protecting the curve of your thighs with his own. The lights of the Archive’s room are dim, the machine hum below is lulling background noise and comforting. And you— you’re warm— not cold or bloodied. Your eyes are soft, but keen in a different way from the man in the echoes of memory. There’s no sharpness to you, not in your words or your presence.
You’re gentle as you cup Dan Heng’s jaw and drag him closer to kiss him.
“You’re thinking pretty hard.” You murmur against his lips. “Are you sure you want this?”
The question makes him— angry. He still doesn’t know how to voice it, so instead he pressed you down into the floor. A bodily expression.
Your hands tangle in his hair and stroke at the lower curve of his skull. It’s gentle, rhythmic and lulling. It’s nothing like—
✶ — ✶ — ✶ — ✶
Yingxing tears at your scalp, hands wound into your long hair. His cock is buried in your throat, bullied there at your request. He’s seated so deep that your nose is buried in the bristly, silver hairs at the base of him. His scent is intoxicant, musky and unclean. Instinct tells you it’s impure, but you have learned that’s conditioning.
You want to swallow him whole.
You swallow around his cock as Yingxing grinds into your throat. You gag, you always do, but Yingxing ignores you in favor of fucking your face with more vigor. The sounds that drag from you are obscene. Ugly things, guttural sounds. Tears drip down your cheeks, spit down your chin—
✶ — ✶ — ✶ — ✶
You kiss him softly, pliant beneath him and snake a hand lower, easily. It’s practiced. Like you’ve done this a hundred times. The rhythm of intimacy seems easy. You palm over his increasingly hard cock and smile against his lips.
“Does it feel good?” you ask, voice soft and curling.
Before Dan Heng can reply, you’re licking up his jaw, to his ear. You nip and suck and Dan Heng can’t help the way his eyes roll back in his head. He groans, rolling his hips against your hand. The friction is dry, but it’s something. Something new and different and not an arousing nightmare. But an arousing reality.
He moans at the contact. The sound startles him.
You seem pleased as you hum against his ear and kiss down from his most sensitive spot, lower, licking over skin with practiced motions. You nip at his collarbones, laughing under your breath when Dan Heng twitches with the pressure of it.
Dan Heng feels— thoroughly disarmed. The feeling grows more intense as you coax him to flip your positions in the next moment.
His back hits the mound of pillows softly. You cradle the back of his head as he moves and massage his scalp.
It’s— the care of it that feels different. There was clearly care between Dan Feng and Yingxing. Too much, in Dan Heng’s opinion— (they shared the kind of care that tore history asunder, love so brilliant and cloying that it could only bring sticky destruction). The kind you give him is different. There’s a warmth in your gaze which is foreign. Yingxing held passion and a brightly burning heat that would surely burn itself out too young. Branding heat.
Yours is tender, the warmth of a hearth you stacked and lit yourself. You beckon him closer with a smile on your lips and hands tangled in his hair. You tug on it, with the barest edge of pain. Dan Heng likes it.
Your knee slots between his thighs, something to grind onto. He can’t help the way he yearns for more contact, and seeks the friction. His pants are too tight, but he doesn’t want to remove them yet.
✶ — ✶ — ✶ — ✶
Yingxing tears off your clothes. Your finest robes— the ceremonial ones, silks with intricate embroidery and beaded with perfectly cut crystals— are in tatters by your bedside within moments. Yingxing’s want is unyielding. The lips that move against your own are so much, and so good. You crave it. Yingxing licks into your mouth and you moan loud enough for your entire home to hear. Never mind your attendants and preceptors.
Let them talk. Let them gossip. You have never cared for legacy regardless.
Yingxing rips away your undergarments. Gossamer things, thin and mostly see-through. You’re already hard, leaking, aching for touch. Yingxing spits on his palm and strokes you. He doesn’t stop as you squirm. You’re not used to touch, especially not like this. No matter how often Yingxing takes you like this, your body cannot fully acclimate quickly.
It takes a moment.
Yingxing uses this to his advantage. He holds you like he has something to prove as he swipes away pre from the head of your cock and licks it off his thumb. He looks smug, smitten, vibrant, and enthralled.
“How many times can I make you come tonight?” Yingxing purrs, voice rough and silken all at once. You feel your cock twitch in his hand. He smirks. “What if I break you?”
“I’d throw you through a window.” You snap at him.
“You wouldn’t.” Yingxing rubs down to the base of your cock and plays with your most tender parts. You try to kick him and he catches your ankle. Yingxing, the bastard he is, presses a kiss to your ankle. Reverent. “You like it when I break you.”
“You’re terrible.”
“And I’m yours. And I’d like to make Yinyue-Jun cry tonight.”
It’s— humiliating the way he speaks to you sometimes. He adores you. He loves you. And for that reason, he knows he can get away with goading you on and shoving you around as he does. He knows intimately what it all does to you. The way your cheeks flush and your cock leaks down its shaft are enough of an indicator. No one sees you bare. Just— him.
Just him.
✶ — ✶ — ✶ — ✶
Dan Heng starts to remove your clothes.
You seem surprised when he does. You try to take over the task yourself, but Dan Heng bats your hands away.
He wants to do this.
Dan Heng is methodical with each button and overly careful. He watches the rise and fall of your chest, noting how it hastens as he works on the last few buttons. The garment is pushed off your shoulders and discarded into his nest.
Seeing you bare is— vulnerable. Surely. You attempt to smile but— Dan Heng sees the cracks in it. As lax as you try to be, this is something different for you as well. Another mystery woven into you that Dan Heng wants to pick apart.
He rubs at your hips, up your ribs and to your chest. You gasp with his touch, leaning back to brace yourself on his thighs. It exposes you more, and— gives him more room to indulge. He cups your breast and steels his resolve when you whine.
Dan Heng has never done this. He wasn’t sure he ever would. It feels foreign and odd to touch you this way, but Dan Heng likes it. The heat that rises in your cheeks when he pinches your nipples. The soft puffs of breath and the sweat of arousal that’s growing on your temple. You roll your hips down onto his clothed cock, seeking the same contact he does.
There’s a tumble to it then. The task of disrobing continues, and you end up entirely nude on top of him, while Dan Heng is still fully clothed.
“... Is this more comfortable for you?” You ask. You aren’t... shy about your body. But there’s an unfamiliar squirm in your upper half that Dan Heng reads as discomfort.
You’re exposed. He is not.
“Somewhat.” Dan Heng lays his hand flat over his navel. He imagines what his cock would feel like inside you and he nearly blacks out.
“Why?”
Dan Heng thinks for a moment—
(It’s because Dan Feng liked power. He loved the games where he could have all of the power and control in his hands, and those where it was torn from him as well. He reveled in both. This— want is an afterburn. One that is not Dan Heng’s. Just like every other thought of intimacy and sex that Dan Heng has ever felt—)
“Dan Heng,” You breathe his name and pet his cheeks. You’re closer now, chest to chest. “Can you tell me why? It’s okay if you can’t.”
“It’s too complicated.”
“... Could you try to tell me, still? We have time.”
“I want to fuck you.”
“You can. After.”
Dan Heng frowns at you. He wants to tell you that— he wants it now. And that patience is something he has in spades but you are testing the limits of. Your poking and prodding, he wants to toss it aside in favor of the literal you in his lap.
He wets his lips as you look at him expectantly. You stroke over his cheek, soothing him as if he were an angry kitten.
“I like that—” Dan Heng starts, and his words die in his throat. What he wants to say—
(“I like that I can see all of you, while not revealing any of myself.”)
You seem like less of a mystery like this, bare and sweaty over top of him. There’s less of you that you can obscure. You’re not hiding from him, dodging him, or flaying him open with honesty while so much of you remains tucked away. You cannot hide your own arousal. Your cheeks are hot with it, your pupils dark and dilated, and your lips are licked and wet.
“Hm?” You hum, a devious smirk stretching over your lips. You grind down onto his cock, with enough pressure that it almost hurts. His eyes roll back into his head. “Can’t you tell me, Dan Heng? Why do you like hiding the way you do?”
Dan Heng stills, opening his eyes to blink at your incredulously.
“... Why do ‘I’ hide?” Dan Heng asks. His tone is rude. He internally slaps his own wrists then forgives himself, because in the next moment, you have your palm over his cock, gripping the length of him through the fabric of his pants. You flick your thumb over where the head is concealed and look smitten with the way his hips jolt.
“I am not a fool.” You toy with the button on his trousers. “Dan Heng, the Nameless, who hides and hides and hides. And feels so infinitely bad when a single card in his hand is revealed. The shame you carry, doesn’t it burden you?”
Dan Heng’s mouth is dry, “I—”
“You can hide like this. I won’t stop you,” You hum, still smiling, still lax in the shoulders. You run a hand up his navel, over his shirt, careful to retain his frail modesty. “Perhaps a bit bashful, yes. But, you’re hiding. How can you crave intimacy when you’re seeking it from behind a veil? Dearest Dan Heng, I will indulge you, because you are dear to me, but will it be fulfilling—?”
You prattle on.
Dan Heng is... seething. Quietly and carefully. Because, you are not wrong. There’s truth to your accusations. You speak no lies, yet the way you’re... delivering the truth is frail and in fragments. Your own eyes look hazy. Your touch grows shaky. Your voice is too soft around the edges for the sharpness of your words.
Dan Heng—
He knows that look.
✶ — ✶ — ✶ — ✶
You have never had sex before.
You’ve read about it, because your Preceptors made sure you did when you were young. This was in the case that you were raped, that you would know what the experience was, so it could be reported in an appropriate and timely manner.
Your exposure to sex beyond that was minimal. Though Vidyadhara copulated, it was not for the sake of procreation. It was based in pleasure, supposedly. You had learned that the humans and foxians of the Xianzhou had sex for the sake of pleasure and power which... you cannot understand. You don’t endeavor to understand it, as you have all of the power that you need.
(You are naive for this, you will learn in time.)
The first time Yingxing implores you to have sex, you know the rote motions. You assume— that since he is a human, this is what he wants from you. You let Yingxing push you down on your own mattress, and you lay there. Yingxing speaks as he disrobes himself, then tends to you.
Each layer of clothing he removes from your body feels like you’re being cut with a knife.
You haven’t let any attendants dress you since you learned to adeptly use Cloudhymn to assist yourself instead. You frequently wear three, sometimes four, layers of silken clothing, even when you are around your own home.
No one sees Yinyue-Jun bare.
And yet, Yingxing peels back each garment without much reverie. He undoes metal and mother-of-pearl clasps with a dexterous flick of his fingers and a dashing, sharp-toothed smile over his lips.
You look down at his own chest when he pushes away the final layer. Your skin is milky, untouched cream. You’re too skinny, the muscle you have is wiry without enough fat. You watch your own chest rise and fall— so quickly. Too quickly.
When you look up at Yingxing, whatever smile he had worn is gone. He wears concern so transparently over his brow as he cups your cheek. His lips move, and you do not hear him. Your own lips still move, an instinctual reply even if you do not register your own words. You can predict what you’re saying.
(“I am fine.)
(“There is no need to worry about me.”)
(“You are foolish for worrying about me.”)
Yingxing softens after you speak, and thumbs over your lips. The pads of his fingers are rough. You can feel the heat callouses, born of friction and incidental burns. It’s so much different from your own flesh, constantly-healing, pure and so rarely bruised.
Yingxing deftly falls to your side, and scoops you in his arms. He smells like iron and smoke. You’re stiff at his side.
He speaks directly in your ear, nosing the shell of it, “As much as I would love to bed Yinyue-Jun, I can recognize when I need to be a gentleman about it.”
“... Pardon?” You swallow. Your voice is foggy in your own ears.
Yingxing’s hand settles on his hip. He pulls back just enough to look at you, nose to nose, violet eyes soft in the amber sway of candles in the room.
“Yinyue-Jun is very brave, for a virgin.” This time, Yingxing smiles like a menace. You punch his back and he seems unperturbed. “Let’s take our time. You have plenty of it, and I have enough to show you how to enjoy this well.”
✶ — ✶ — ✶ — ✶
Dan Heng understands, then.
In a smooth motion, he raises his palm to fit over your mouth. You stop speaking beneath it, and you snatch his wrist up in your own grip.
“If I am hiding, then so are you,” Dan Heng says. There is no waver to his voice anymore. “And you are terrified.”
You freeze above him.
It’s enough of an opening for Dan Heng to knit his legs with your own, and drag you down into his nest. He wraps his arms around you, chest-to-chest (covering you, hiding you himself, keeping you safe and sating that fanged, draconic howl in his chest that will never fully quiet). You remain stiff in his arms, eyes wide and you’re not smiling.
Your gaze flickers up to his and holds it, unrelentingly.
“I don’t mind doing things scared.” You tell him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.
“Will you enjoy it if you’re scared?”
“... Maybe less, but it’ll feel nice.” You shrug, nosing at his jaw. “I like you, Dan Heng. I wouldn’t have offered sex if I didn’t want to have it.”
Dan Heng locks his jaw. He noses down your jaw, down your neck, to the juncture where your shoulder meets it. The flesh is tender. You have your free arm draped carefully over your chest, covering your most exposed, vulnerable portions as he tries to do the same to you. Your breath is soft, bated as he hovers.
“I don’t want to have sex with you if it will only feel ‘nice’,” Dan Heng says into the hollow of your throat.
“How demanding.”
The bar is on the fucking ground. “I do not think so.”
Dan Heng slides a hand lower, between your thighs. You’re only wearing shorts, soft amiri-cotton that sparkles in the lowlight of the archive’s room. It’s a thin garment. It takes nothing for Dan Heng to cup a hand over your sex. With dexterity and focus, he presses his middle finger closer. The seam of your cunt is wet, even through the fabric.
“Are you scared or nervous?” He asks.
“Hm, what about you?”
“Do not dodge my question.” He squeezes over your cunt and you clutch at his shoulders with a gasp. “Just answer it.”
You consider his question, and open your mouth like you’re going to attempt to parry him, then close it again. Your lips are smooth, petal-soft as he thumbs over them, urging them to stay closed until you have an answer.
Dan Heng struggles with eye contact, but forces himself to stare you down.
“Both?” You ask behind his finger. There’s a hint of mirth behind your words.
Dan Heng frowns, “How can it... be enjoyable for you?”
“... That’s a good question.” You look far-off for a moment, not there in his nest. “Not quite sure, but I’m sure I can.”
There’s an implicit ‘I have before’ that you do not say. However, with the way your head falls limply to the side in his grip, Dan Heng immediately knows he hit one of your rare soft spots. He— he immediately regrets it. He’s in uncharted territory that he strong-armed his way into. And he— he doesn’t know the way out. He’s a sexless virgin who masturbates once every three months and his most emotionally (and sexually) charged relationship is with the living ghost of a man insistent on killing him.
✶ — ✶ — ✶ — ✶
Yingxing does not remember much of his youth.
Dan Feng knows this intimately.
The short-lived have expiring memories that seem to muddle the old over time. Dan Feng cannot understand, as his memory is pristine and clear from the time he emerged from the ancient sea in a jade-colored egg.
Yingxing remembers the Zhuming, vaguely, and then remembers arriving on the Luofu. He vaguely remembers his first meeting with Baiheng, and sleeping on a little cot in her tiny apartment while he worked his way up in the Artisanship Commission. Lucidly, these are his earliest memories.
Outside of lucidity, Dan Feng knows Yingxing remembers more.
Occasionally, something will make Yingxing remember his unpleasant, smallest youth. The loud boom of the Luofu’s biggest fireworks. A snarling dog. Splintering wood. The scent of burnt hair.
It makes Yingxing stiffen, tense, and draw up in himself.
Dan Feng has done his own research early on. In his adolescence, Yingxing was nothing more than a scrappy refugee with nothing to his name.
Yingxing’s home planet, a lush-planet... abundant in jungle lands and river systems, was plundered by abundance. Borisins. Most of its population was wiped out. Yingxing escaped due to good fortune, luck, and no doubt sacrifices he couldn’t remember.
He understands Yingxing’s passion and revulsion much better after he learns these things.
It all enrages Dan Feng.
Yingxing’s fragmented memory, which continues to weather with time, can only give him the basest impulses when faced with something that makes him remember that frightening time. Even if he cannot remember in the mind, then he does in the body.
Dan Feng does not tell Yingxing that he knows. Yingxing is too proud a man— he’ll take offense and cause trouble. Dan Feng thinks it is better that he himself hold the knowledge, and soothe him how he can. Dan Feng can stew within himself, hone Cloud Piercer, and cut those who slighted his beloved.
It is something beyond duty.
An expression of care, one that tastes briny and bloody on Dan Feng’s fangs.
✶ — ✶ — ✶ — ✶
“Can I help?” Dan Heng asks.
You blink at him. He strokes down your cheek. You hum and press your lips into his palm.
“Can you?”
“I— I will,” Dan Heng stammers. “How can I make this less... scary, for you?”
Can he?
Your gaze penetrates him. It’s something sharp, seeking. Looking for his weak spots for a moment. You’re searching for danger in him.
You soften and cozy up closer, a moment later.
“Just... take your time, and I’ll take mine.” You kiss him, and speak against his lips. “It’s easier if we both can ease into it.”
Dan Heng nods. He... he wants to fuck you. He will.
...
You pick each other apart. Bit by bit, piece by piece.
It is a slow affair, one neither of you truly lead. You spur Dan Heng on, and he follows.
He guides you when he can, when it feels natural and normal. You seem content in those moments, more relaxed and soft-eyed.
You do not wear a full facade all of the time, but Dan Heng now knows that you are careful to keep yourself skillfully hidden.
Dan Heng finds this out, intimately, while he is between your thighs, tongue against your slit. He laps at you, in the motions you describe. Your hands are buried in his hair, directing him with your grip and the gentle grind of your hips against his face. It is— heavenly. Your thighs around his ears, the scent of you. He left a few pointed bite marks on your thighs, which you had yelped at.
He enjoyed giving them.
You fall apart against his mouth in a way he hasn’t seen before.
It’s— so good to watch. When he looks up at you, you gasp, you whine, and throw your wrist over your mouth to muffle the sounds you’re letting out. Each gasp has Dan Heng earnestly trying to wring more out of you. He watches your eyes roll back as you crest. Your thighs clamp around his skull and a broken sound rips from your throat. He guides you through it, then moves to your hole, lapping at your essence until he’s sure he’s drenched in it.
You pull him up for a kiss, and lick into his mouth. Your hands shake as they pet over his cheeks and jaw. Against his lips, you tell him— “you did so well”, “that was so good”, “thank you” —
The praise is almost unbearable Dan Heng has to hide his burning face in your neck to escape the vulnerability of it.
You pay it no mind, and just laugh at him, smothering your lips into his mused-up hair.
It’s— it’s good. It’s good and soft and nothing like the dreams he’s carried with him for fair too long.
“Did you enjoy that?” You ask him, forcing him to look at you.
“I did.”
“Good.” You’re smitten with the answer and rub at his waist. You’d— clawed off his shirt at one point. Bare to each other. Dan Heng only has on his final layer of underwear that is increasingly tight and wet, with a growing patch of pre on the front.
“Do you want me to suck you off?” You ask. Your hand, gentle, slides down his front, between your bodies to rub over his cock.
Dan Heng— struggles to find words as you tease the head of it with the tip of a finger. The smile you wear is devilish.
“Maybe later—” He manages. “I want to— be inside you.”
He wants to be closer.
You look content with that, and pet him some more.
“In due time,” You kiss his cheek. “Will you allow me to be cruel, and make you wait a little longer?”
“It’s not cruel.”
“Okay, mean then.”
“You’re the furthest thing from mean.” Dan Heng frowns. He bites your cheek in retaliation without thinking and you squirm, pinned beneath him. A laugh bubbles from your throat, and Dan Heng can’t help but twin the sound.
“So kind.”
...
Time stretches out, between languid kissing and the feel of your bare bodies so close, the night and day cycles the Express regulates do not seem of consequence. It’s the most relaxed Dan Heng has been in recent memory. You make it easy to be so.
You have no expectations when you touch him, other than the easy exchange of heat and spit.
By the time Dan Heng has your legs wrapped around your waist, cock against your hole, he’s light-headed. He wants, so much. The image of you laid out before him, bare and covered in various marks of his, will be with him for years. There’s nothing lazy or unfocused about your gaze now, there’s only desire, so hot and needy that it makes Dan Heng’s throat feel tight.
You flex your hips, pushing the tip of his cock against your clit. You both gasp.
“Please, Dan Heng?” You say smugly as you play with the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“I—” The words die in his throat.
He strokes up and down the flesh of your stomach. Your muscles are relaxed, soft. You’re no longer playing a role, he thinks. You’re here, wanting, edging toward begging him. The head of his cock is purple from strain and prolonged arousal.
He presses into you slowly.
You are stretched, and Dan Heng isn’t particularly large, so he does not see any strain cross your features. If anything, there’s relief. If you were relaxed before, you’re boneless now, taking as much of him as he will give you.
Dan Heng fucks you in earnest then, under the glow of the Archive’s many machines and fixtures. You grab at his shoulders and bury your face in his neck. Dan Heng didn’t think he shared Dan Feng’s proclivity for pain, however the way your nails wrack down his back has him throbbing from inside you.
By the time he spills inside you, he’s gasping, sobbing with each thrust because it is so much. Closeness— like this— that’s real and tangible and in his grasp and within his body (only his, no one else’s) feels so vibrant and violent, it cleaves him open. He comes with a broken sound muffled into your throat, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh there. You let him, spasming with the pressure and letting out your own half-cry with the pain. Dan Heng fucks you through his orgasm, until he can’t support his weight on his knees, and he falls on top of you.
You let out a little ‘oof’, and then laugh, wrung out and happy.
Dan Heng cherishes the memory.
✶ — ✶ — ✶ — ✶
You are most tired, but you must continue to move forward.
Despite your aching rear and scratchy eyes, there are duties to attend to. Never mind that your husband is in your bed, knocked out, regardless of whatever regenerative cloudhymns you could give him. Yingxing is mortal, and no matter how much of you he consumes (figuratively), it only slows his aging, never stopping it completely.
Yingxing will die, long before you do. And that is if he dies of old age and not the diseases and maladies of the short-lived. Or some violence that you and the rest of the Quintet will be unable to protect him from.
This will not do.
You enter your study with sweeping, loose robes. You tell your attendants to leave you be. Your ritual obligations are not until the evening. Until then, you will be confine yourself in your study and continue to pour over the scrolls, documents, and books you have been able to find. It has been hard to procure some of them— having Sanctus Medicus texts brought to the home of the High Elder would be treasonous. It has required careful planning to amass the library you have, and you are diligent in keeping it hidden. Even from your lover.
He would not forgive you, were he to know.
You have never been selfish, not once in your life. In any of your lives. You have lived for your people, the Luofu, and a dead Aeon that you remain the after-image of. You have played the part well, smiled when necessary and remained cold enough to rarely stir dangerous interests. You have healed many without complaint.
As you settle into your nest of pillows and blankets, and pick up your newest scroll, you don’t feel that guilty. You will let yourself have this one thing. If nothing else in any of your lifetimes, this one fucking thing will be yours.
You unfurl the scroll with a yawn. It’s a text, an old one, from the High Elder that followed Yubie. They lived a short life for a high elder, two hundred years. However, they were a prolific scholar. Most of their works have been hidden away with time, as some are downright blasphemous and utilize the Abundance in a way that both the Vidyadhara’s high council and the Luofu’s Charioteers could not tolerate.
This particular one has not seen the light of day since that High Elder’s time. It is titled:
[The Twin-Hearted Dragon Theory: The Permanence and Abundance’s Coalescing]
✶ — ✶ — ✶ — ✶
“What a weird one.” You say with a yawn. Dan Heng can hear your voice through your chest, where his cheek is pillowed on your bare chest. He— there’s a spot of drool that’s cooling unpleasantly. He blinks awake and rises off you, to rub the stickiness away, blushing furiously.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It was cute. You were sleeping good, for once.” You tell him and muse up his hair. “Besides, you’ve gotten me far messier than that.”
You both are messy. Dan Heng can feel the stickiness on his softened cock, and he imagines you’re leaking between your legs. He sneaks a hand between your body and gently feels along your thighs to confirm his suspicion.
You gasp when he grazes your core. You— you are dripping. Cold, too. It must be uncomfortable. Dan Heng frowns.
“Don’t worry about that.” You assure him, voice shaking. “We can clean up in a little bit.”
“Isn’t it uncomfortable?”
“Maybe,” you hum, unsure. “I don’t mind it, regardless.”
Dan Heng raises himself up off of you, and braces his hands on your inner thighs. He’s warmed with the combined heat of the Archives, his nest, and you. You’re chilled under him and— Dan Heng. Can’t have that. He can’t totally trace why, he pulls a blanket up and over your bodies.
You let him arrange you as he sees fit. He brings you to his chest, and fits your head under his chin. He tangles your legs, indulges in the contact and tries to transfer some of his volcanic heat into you. You look content as he does, nuzzling into his throat.
Your own eyelids droop.
“Are you going to sleep?” He asks.
“... Probably not.” You say with a yawn.
“You look tired.”
“I am,” You nod and push closer. “But, I don’t need to, and it’s hard to get myself to sleep. It’s more trouble than it's worth, trying to sleep.”
Dan Heng doesn’t think before speaking. “Has it always been hard?”
You pause, breathing even and slowly, “Not always.”
“Why did it get harder?”
You choose your words carefully then, despite your evident exhaustion. Your brow droops, and you rub at Dan Heng’s sides. Your thumbs skitter over his ribs.
“How much do you know about the Kin of Sacha, Dan Heng?” You ask. “It provides context. I’d hate to bore you.”
“... Very little. The databanks only has limited information.”
“Oh, you looked for me?” You nip at his jaw, playful, even as Dan Heng prepares a nervous rebuttal. You soothe his distress before it can get anywhere. “I’m kidding— and it makes sense there’s not much about us out there. There aren’t that many of us to begin with.”
“... How many?”
“I’m not sure, truthfully. Probably less than a thousand. Maybe half of that. Unless Sacha has... awoken to bless more. But I doubt that.”
You rarely mention the Aeon who provided you your sleeplessness and dream-seeing. You even more seldom mention anyone you knew prior to your time on the express.
You sign, “Typically, the Kin of Sacha work as mystics or laborers. Some societies we encountered saw the Aeon’s gifts as a psychic boon to be cultivated. Others, like the one I was raised in, saw the Kin as a well of infinite, tireless labor. You learn quickly under those expectations that even if you could sleep, it’s more ideal not to.”
Conditioning, then.
Dan Heng thinks back to when he first saw you at that rest stop. How you’d swayed on your two feet, eyes glassy and far away. How long they took to focus. How the embroidered logo on your breast must’ve belonged to whatever company you’d been under the employ of. Pieces fit together, and Dan Heng feels slightly sick.
“You don’t— need to be like that, now. You should sleep.”
With your hands braced on his chest, you lean back to look at him. Your gaze is soft, unguarded. You look almost plush with it.
“... I guess I should.”
(I guess I could.)
That’s all it takes, really. You nearly collapse back into the nest, and Dan Heng settled himself to be curled around you. If— If he still deigned to manifest his Vidyadharan tail, perhaps it would be curled around you both.
But, Dan Heng does not manifest any tail. You do not need to stay awake. You both rest under the filtered, soft light of the Archives, and that is all you must do.
Veritas sighs knowingly as he's once again pulled away into a secluded hallway of the Intelligentsia Guild's main building. His back hits the marbled walls, their chilling cold sending shivers down his spine.
You giggle as he stares down at you in exasperation. He finds your expression, a smug and triumphant grin, oddly adorable as you trap him between your arms.
"You couldn't wait until work was over?" he asks, yet a twinkle in his eye tells you that he is far from displeased. You both know he could've easily broken free from you if he wanted to.
You shrug, letting your arms trail from the wall, running down his muscular arms before pulling him closer to you.
"I missed you." Your voice is a soft murmur as you lean in, brushing your nose against his. Veritas's chest rumbles as he hums, his eyes like a perfect sunset fluttering - not yet closed, their wisdom peeking at you from behind his long lashes.
"That much is evident," he chuckles.
The kiss you share is soft, sweet, yet far too short. Like a warm meal in the midst of winter, you long for it, chase it, and savor it as it melts on your tongue. It's a flower that blooms away from the garden, straying, fleeting, yet beautiful all the same. But its taste is over before you know it.
You press your forehead to his. The bell is soon to ring, and Veritas will once again be pulled away from you. The doctor brings you impossible closer to him, his arms loosely around your waist as he closes his eyes, lingering in your warmth for just a bit longer.
"I have to go," he says softly. You nod. Reluctantly, you release him. His fingers linger on you for a moment, and just like that, they're gone.
When the day eventually turns to night, and you can finally retire into the comfort of your home, it is then that you can embrace him for as long as you desire.
INFO: 2812 words, Alhaitham x gn!reader, a little mildly suggestive content (16+)
SYNOPSIS: after focusing your whole life on studies and beating Alhaitham, you find that you've lost yourself, and you don't know how to put yourself back together.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is so rushed and bad but the ideas just kept flowing out and suddenly I wrote a whole short story 😓 (unedited pls lmk if u find errors! likes and reblogs also very much appreciated!!!)
It was never a competition – not to him, at least.
Him, with his cold, unwavering demeanour and even colder, unshakable gaze.
It never was a competition, but to you, everything was. You hated it all. You hated his expression, permanently arranged in disdain, and his withering glare. That look that he always gave you, always the same, blank stare.
Above all, you loathed his overwhelming sense of self importance. He carried himself with such an air that you felt absolutely unremarkable next to him, and in your drunken wishes, you yearned for him to be put in his place.
Wishful drinking, you called it, and such was suited to a night like this. The night before receiving the results for your final exams, the only one that really mattered in your seemingly futile quest to outshine Alhaitham.
Your roommates were fully aware of your infatuation, though you wouldn’t call it that. They teased you for locking yourself up in your room while they went out socialising and bar streaking, most often returning with the reek of alcohol staining their clothes, passing out on the couch.
They thought you weren’t a drinker, too, but truthfully, you only saved drinking for important occasions, and this seemed like an occasion important enough. With a flair for dramatic, you had claimed yet another bottle of cheap wine off the kitchen counter before retreating to your room, several glances of concern and curiosity following you down the hallway. Seated on the miniature balcony, you twisted open the cap on the bottle, wincing at the wine’s harsh bitterness as time slipped by, minutes blurring into hours with hushed murmurs outside your door.
They cared, they really did. But you couldn’t bring yourself to acknowledge them, not with your thoughts too occupied with outdoing Alhaitham to amount to anything substantial. Your roommates already thought you were a studying fanatic – those looks of concern weren’t a first time occurrence as you trudged up the stairs with the wine in tow. You didn’t care enough to correct or reassure them – though were they wrong?
You hardly left the house enough, if it weren’t for classes and your job, you’d be a hermit. It felt suffocating, sometimes, the life you’d given yourself. Though ahead in all other aspects, you couldn’t help but feel like you were falling behind. Everyone was falling in love, while you fell behind, caught in the grinding cycle of academics and validation.
Melancholic and dramatic, you were, when you were drunk. Though others may be hopeless romantics.
“[name]? Someone’s here to see you.” Your roommate knocks on your door.
You don’t glance over your shoulder as the knocking becomes more insistent. “No thanks.”
“May I come in?” A familiar voice echoes from down the hallway. Your hand freezes halfway to the bottle.
The door creaks open, and you turn around, slowly standing up and steadying yourself on the railing. Alhaitham stands in the doorframe, only his silhouette visible through the light pouring in through the hallway.
You’re suddenly far too aware of your pyjama pants and well worn hoodie, folding your arms across yourself. “Why are you here?”
He stands there for a while, completely still. Then he sighs. “I don’t know.” Stepping across the threshold, he starts to close the door behind him.
“I didn’t say you could come in,”
“Sorry.” He says. After a brief silence, he leaves.
You stand there, confused, with unspoken questions hanging in the air.
Then, the door opens again.
You’d never seen him so unsteady before, gaze darting around the room and a flush high on his cheeks. His Emerald eyes are bright as he steps into the dim light of your room. “I have to come in.”
You frown at him in confusion. “Why are you here?”
The moment doesn’t seem real as he crosses the room, joining you on the balcony. Quiet lingers around the two of you as you give up asking for his motive and simply reassume your position at the railing. Maybe you’re too tired or burnt out to care, but as he hesitantly joins you, casting you indiscreet side glances, you offer him the bottle.
A show of camaraderie, perhaps.
He shakes his head, and you take a swig from the bottle, yourself, before setting it back on the low, rusty coffee table.
He fidgets with his hands, turning the ring on his index finger over and over. It clicks with the ring on his other finger, occasionally, resonating an irritating ticking noise.
“Can you stop? What do you want?” You finally outburst, startling him. Alhaitham faces you now, entirely focused on you. But his usual look of casual disdain is gone, and you’re not sure you recognise the man staring at you.
His features bathed in moonlight, his gaze looks softer than it ever had before. The soft breeze brushes his hair across his forehead, and you can’t help but wonder how soft they’d feel to your touch.
“I want you,”
Before you can fully register his reply, he draws you in, one hand reaching around your waist, another reaching softly into your hair, and kisses you.
You fail to register anything at all – all other sensation is irrelevant with the sheer feeling of the warmth of his lips on yours. It feels so wrong, but you can’t bring yourself to pull away.
It’s intoxicating. He tastes like wine.
He withdraws, expression blank again.
“What?” You utter, and abruptly, as if snapping out of a stance, he flees your room with such rapidity that you have to consider whether or not it was all a dream. As his footsteps echo down the hallway, you run a hand through your hair, tousled by his touch, snatch the bottle from its place and drink deeply.
–
The autumn chill drifts in the air. Other students dawdle about on the lawns, boisterous laughter echoing across the courtyard. Your class sits in solemn silence. You with your ringing head in your hands, and him with his back turned to everyone, focused on the lecture hall’s door.
When you woke that morning, the morning after that, you were insistent on believing that it was a dream. But the empty bottle lying on the balcony and the ring on the ground said otherwise.
You turn the metal ring over in your pocket, running a finger over the miniature inscriptions on the inside.
‘Empathy, the double-edged sword’
You’d been fretting over how to return the ring, avoiding the primary subject on your mind – overshadowed with the return of the test papers.
The minutes tick by in anxious silence until the door bursts open with a professor whose arms are filled with papers.
If it weren’t for the pounding hangover, you’d be laughing at the anticlimactic atmosphere. The professor grumbles under his breath as he hands out the exam papers and results, not offering a general comment on the class’ results.
He reaches Alhaitham, and gives him the pleased look he always gives him. The class launches into whispers of speculation.
The professor’s walk down the aisles of chairs seems like it takes forever, and you have half a mind to snatch the stack of papers out of his hands and wildly search for yours.
Until he stops in front of you.
A slight smile as he hands the paper to you.
“Well done.”
A perfect score.
Over your shoulder, someone announces it to the entire class.
Alhaitham meets your eyes with a soft smile and a nod. A ninety nine is hastily scrawled onto the front page with red ink.
Relief; Your heart and head feel light, but your stomach is filled with butterflies. It should feel liberating, but you’re unsure what – how – to feel. The past few years had led up to this moment, but it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like you thought it would, like the victory you’d hoped it would’ve been.
As quick as it was, your relief is gone, quickly replaced by a sinking feeling of foreboding as you walk out of the classroom, congratulations falling on deaf ears.
–
It’s midnight, again, and you’re awake, tossing another empty bottle into the corner to join the others.
Your roommates were overjoyed for you, they cooked you a celebratory dinner, toasted to your success, and teased you about going clubbing with them that night. Yet you turned them down like you always did, because nothing felt right anymore.
That gaping hole in your heart, previously haphazardly filled with academics, now felt like a great, yawning chasm with no bottom in sight.
Your entire purpose had been fulfilled, and you had a bright future with job offers lying in your emails, untouched, but it didn’t feel complete.
You realised that you lost yourself.
In trying to become better than someone else, you’d lost yourself, and you didn’t know how to find a way back.
“[name], we’re going out, are you sure you don’t want to join us?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
A slight pause. “Okay. Also, your friend from before is at the front door. Should I let him in?”
You vividly recall the intoxicating, wine stained taste of Alhaitham’s lips against your own, the sensation of his fingers tangling in your hair, and his hand bracing your waist on this very balcony. The ring sits in your pocket, the tiny scrap of metal heavier than ever – a burning weight.
“Sure. Send him up here.” You manage.
Melancholic and dramatic were a few of the things you were when you were drunk, but you were also known to have made horrifyingly bad decisions.
You hear your roommate walk down the hallway and down the stairs. You hear the front door open and close. You take the ring out of your pocket and start turning it over in your hands, pacing around your balcony all the while.
A knock on your door, and you snap to attention, waiting a while before weakly calling for him to enter.
The door slowly creaks open, and his silhouette fills the doorframe. He leans against it, seemingly unsure of whether or not to fully enter.
A long silence ensues.
“Are you here to take your ring back?” You start, holding it out.
“Oh. Yeah.” But he doesn’t cross the room. So you do. You walk toward the door, stepping into the light of the hallway as he steps back.
His cheeks are flushed, gaze darting and fleeting.
With more daring than you’d ever displayed, you grab his hand and slide the ring back on, marvelling at his fingers – long, slender, pale. Pretty. A scholar’s hands.
“Thanks.” He murmurs, looking up from your hands, meeting your eyes for the first time.
The soft look is back again.
“Congratulations, by the way.” He starts, removing his hands from yours. “Professor said we were going to share valedictorian.”
You nod, suddenly immensely uncomfortable. “Not surprised.”
He nods as well, seemingly sheepishly, muttering something under his breath that you don’t catch.
“What was that?”
“Kaveh said that if I don’t tell you tonight, he’d tell you himself.”
“Well tell him that I said thanks.”
He rubs his face with his hand, exasperated. “No, not congratulations,”
“Then what?”
He gives you a long look.
“Are you going to stare at me all night?”
“Archons, I don’t know what you do to me.” He takes your face in his hands and brings your lips to his.
It all feels so right. Alhaitham tastes just as intoxicating as he did the first time, only now, there’s a fervour behind his movements. The cherry wine on his lips is exhilaratingly rich. You could get drunk off his taste alone.
His hands boldly move down your body, leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin – in return, your hands wander his torso, teasingly skimming the skin beneath his shirt. He shudders, pulling away, although the sheer intensity of his gaze tells you that he won’t be leaving you this time.
“Does that tell you what I'm here to tell you?”
“Might have to explain a little more,” You rasp, catching your breath.
Some sort of restraint within his self control snaps, and he pushes you into your room, locking your door behind you.
In light of what happened after that, you were tremendously grateful that your roommates had left to go clubbing.
–
Neither of you were sure what it was.
The morning after, he’d left before you woke up. Rather than feeling betrayed, you appreciated his absence, as it gave you time to gather your scattered, alcohol imbued thoughts.
It soon became a regular thing, where he’d stop by your shared house – that you’d never given him the address to (although he later explained that he got it from Kaveh) – to see you. It wasn’t always a hook up, sometimes he dropped by in the middle of the day if you were around, and made conversation.
The first few nights, however, were actively avoided. He would always hurriedly change the topic or avoid the question, averting your gaze. But it didn’t matter now – or so you thought – as he sat on your bed, watching you read.
A month ago, you’d have kicked him out without a second thought, but here you were, making idle conversation about something as ordinary as TV shows and work with him while you read.
It felt nice – right. It felt like you’d known each other for years when you were intent on resenting him for your entire college career. It felt so secure that you’d forget why you hated him.
“What’s on your mind?” He asked, flipping through one of the novels lying on the bedside table.
“You.”
Alhaitham rolls his eyes. “Of course I am.”
You hit him lightly with your book. “Pretentious little shit.”
“Wounded.” He deadpans, setting the book back down.
“Seriously though, I find it so weird that you’re sitting on my bed and making normal conversation with me when a year ago I’d have given you a black eye if you showed up to my house unannounced.”
He frowns. “Why?”
You level him with a blank stare. “Are you being sarcastic?”
He shakes his head, expression genuine.
“You’re not kidding?” You set aside your book, leaning in. “I hated you, you know that, right?”
“What?” His expression is one of genuine surprise as he takes in the apparently new information. “Since when? Why?”
“You have to be kidding me.” You laugh at the comical nature of it all. “You didn’t know?”
He stares at you, mouth half open in shock. “The whole time?”
You nod.
He lies down on your bed, still digesting the discovery. “I thought…”
“What did you think?”
“Your friends always just said that you didn’t socialise a lot, I thought you just didn’t know how to socialise or something,”
You sit and observe him in silence for a while.
“Sorry, I don’t know why I’m surprised” he runs a hand through his steel grey hair. “It was so obvious, now that I think about it. How could I have not realised?”
“Your turn. Tell me.” You suddenly say, lying down next to him. “What did you want to tell me the first night you visited me?”
He goes quiet. He’s quiet for so long that you have to check if he’s still awake. His gaze is pointed at your ceiling, the glow in the dark stars there.
“I’ve been somewhat in love with you for the longest time.” He finally admits, voice thick.
“You what?” You sit up, mouth agape. “What the fuck?”
“If you want me to leave, I’ll go.” He says, sitting up as well. “I figured I should tell you eventually, and that time is now.”
Quiet ensues, as it so often does when you’re around each other. Not an uncomfortable sort of quiet – the quiet that speaks louder than words.
You’d both been blind the whole time. You, for your infatuation with him – with beating him, with his person, with his attitude and, though you’d never admit it to him, his looks – and him, with his one sided love for you.
And though you’d both been too near-sighted to see the other person in their entirety, now your cracks are showing. The recesses in his facade of steel, and the fractures in your mask of indifference.
Two puzzle pieces. Pieces that could mould to each other, shaping and weathering with time.
So when he makes to leave, you grab his hand. A silent question. The tension eases from his shoulders, and Alhaitham pulls you off the bed, wrapping you in his arms.
From the past few weeks with him, you think you love him too. That the ‘hatred’ that you’d accumulated for him was actually obsession in place of desire.
You couldn’t recognise yourself in the mirror anymore. So much of you was missing. But maybe, the two of you could find yourselves in each other.
written by @delat1ne, published 27th of August 2023
The cordyceps ‘vaccine’ in the Last of Us is bullcrap
I know this is just a game and maybe the science and medical advancement in the game is different from the real world, but if we apply what we know in real life about infectious diseases and preventative medicine in real life, the Fireflies probably wouldn’t be able to make a ‘vaccine’ and would have killed Ellie and destroyed the possibility of a cure for nothing. Here’s why:
1. In the real world, we do not have vaccines for fungal infection. Firstly, because fungal infection are super rare and mostly only affect those with compromised immunity. Secondly, anti-fungal medications are usually very effective against fungal infection so the medical field was never pushed to develop a vaccine for any fungal infections. I’m not saying that developing a vaccine for fungal diseases is impossible, but right now we don’t have any successful fungal vaccine and I highly doubt that in a post-apocalyptic world, this ONE doctor with insufficient equipment would be able to make a vaccine out of Ellie’s sample.
2. A vaccine prevents someone from developing disease after contracting the pathogen, it has no effect on people who already contracted the fungus and developed disease. So it is not a ‘cure’.
3. To make a vaccine, you use a weakened version of the pathogen, or a similar pathogen that does not cause disease in your target species. If they want to make a vaccine for the cordyceps fungus, they could have easily used fungal sample from the infected and engineer a vaccine from it. They didn’t have to kill Ellie for it.
4. In the game, Ellie was unconscious before she entered the Fireflies hospital and remained unconscious throughout the entire time she was there. So, either all the tests and decisions happened in a very short time or they kept her under with anaesthetic drugs. But since Joel was there as well and he woke up to them telling him they are going to kill Ellie, I would say they made a decision to kill ellie in a very short time. The problem is, they only had her for such a short time and they obviously have not studied Ellie before they got her, how in the world could they possibly figure out what makes Ellie immune so quickly?!
5. In the game, they claimed that the reason Ellie is immune is because the fungus has mutated inside of her. But really, there is no way the doctor would know the fungus has mutated unless he got a sample of the fungus. In the game it looked like all they have was an MRI scan. Just using imaging is NOT sufficient to identify a mutation, you would need to look at the sample microscopically and DNA test it. If that doctor somehow got his hand on some of the fungal samples from Ellie and found a mutation, why would he need to cut her brain open? That make absolutely no sense?!
6. They can’t prove the reason that Ellie is immune due to a mutated fungus. To prove the theory, they would need to inoculate the mutated pathogen in a test subject (usually would start with a petri dish of target cells, and then a lab animal) and look for changes. They obviously haven’t done it so how can they be so sure about this and would bet the life of a teenage girl on it?
7. To make a cure, killing Ellie is the VERY LAST thing they should do. Hell, it shouldn’t even be on a list. If they want to make a cure, the VERY FIRST thing they should have done is take her blood and test her plasma. The plasma of our blood contains antibodies, the thing that fights off infections. If I’m the doctor/scientist, knowing Ellie is immune, her plasma is the first thing that I would look at. Because if someone is immune to a disease, that means their body has developed effective antibodies against said infection, and these antibodies will remain in their circulation for some time, and even if the level isn’t enough, upon reintroduction of the pathogen, her antibodies level would skyrocket. Using her plasma, they can potentially treat people after they have been exposed to the fungus. But yea, her plasma would be the cure so killing her is stupid.
8. In this vast population of humans, it is highly impossible that Ellie is the only one who is immune.
I know this is just a game but I’m way too emotionally invested in this. And the fact that they made it sounds like Abby’s father was going to develop a cure and that he is a saint, is absolute bullcrap. He was going to kill an innocent girl and the last hope for a cure for NOTHING. Joel did the right thing by saving her.
Why is this still a thing? I just saw yet another article trying to recommend a few female authors as though they’re some rare species. The suggestions turned out to be just as boring as every other list: Rowling, Austen, Rowling, Bronte, Rowling.
I don’t know why people keep struggling to come up with 5 amazing female authors (or even making these lists. Like whyyy). So let me now walk over to my bookshelf and rattle off some names of my favorite modern female authors… (also, enjoy my attempt to break my endless “YA fantasy” books into groups).
If you’re searching for that super elusive book written by a woman, try:
Dystopian
Veronica Roth
Lauren Oliver
Kristin Cashore
Veronica Rossi
Beth Revis
Marie Lu
Tahereh Mafi
Suzanne Collins
Susan Ee
Suzanne Young
Jennifer Wilson
Amy Engel
Fantasy
Samantha Shannon
Evelyn Skye
A.C. Gaughen
Jessica Khoury
Alwyn Hamilton
Marissa Meyer
Heidi Heilig
Libba Bray
Leslye Walton
Janet Lee Carey
Jennifer McGowan
Diana Peterfreund
JK Rowling
Janet B. Taylor
Laini Taylor
Robin LaFevers
Erin Morgenstern
Kendare Blake
Amie Kaufman
Kerstin Gier
Kiersten White
Melanie Dickerson
Melissa Landers
KM Shea
Alison Goodman
Elizabeth May
Kiera Cass
Renee Ahdieh
Marion Zimmer Bradley
Alexandra Bracken
Romina Russell
Deborah Harkness
Diana Gabaldon
Madeline Miller
Julie Eshbaugh
High Fantasy
Sarah J Maas
Maria V. Snyder
Mary E. Pearson
Sara B. Larson
Jennifer A. Nielsen
Shannon Hale
Stephanie Garber
Diana Wynne Jones
Stacey Jay
Erin Summerill
Leigh Barudgo
Hannah West
Sabaa Tahir
Victoria Aveyard
Rosamund Hodge
Melina Marchetta
Rae Carson
Naomi Novik
Susan Dennard
Wendy Higgins
V.E. Schwab
Gail Carson Levine
CJ Redwine
Katherine Roberts
Sara Raasch
Erika Johansen
Rachel Hartman
Juliet Marillier
Livia Blackburne
Sophie Jordan
Tamora Pierce
Sandra Waugh
Marie Rutkoski
Elise Kova
Angie Sage
Amy Tintera
Sarah Fine
Jodi Meadows
Cinda Williams Chima
Morgan Rhodes
Sherry Thomas
Danielle L. Jensen
Colleen Oakes
Melissa Grey
Sarah Ahiers
Lori M. Lee
Roshani Chokshi
Modern Fantasy
Cassandra Clare
Rachel Hawkins
Stephanie Meyer
Jennifer L. Armentrout
Kami Garcia
Claudia Gray
Julie Kagawa
Maggie Stiefvater
Kaitlin Bevis
Aimee Carter
Holly Black
Cynthia Hand
Richelle Mead
Temple West
Alex Flinn
Kresley Cole
Josephine Angelini
Lisa Maxwell
Zoraida Cordova
Contemporary
Rainbow Rowell
Jenny Han
Morgan Matson
Sarah Dessen
Kasie West
Jennifer Longo
Anna Breslaw
Sonya Mukherjee
Huntley Fitzpatrick
Melissa Keil
Brodi Ashton
Jennifer Niven
Katherine Catmull
Miranda Kenneally
Eileen Cook
Sandy Hall
Jenn Marie Thorne
Sarah Strohmeyer
Stephanie Perkins
Danika Stone
Elizabeth Eulberg
Jandy Nelson
Carolyn Mackler
Ali Novak
Ann Brashares
Tamara Ireland Stone
Gwenda Bond
Stacey Lee
Nina LaCour
(Sorry to Leigh Bird Dog and anyone else whose name autocorrect couldn’t deal with if I didn’t catch it).
These are just the books I happened to glance at, so feel free to add! And then maybe this can stop being a thing…
